


Breaking Cycles

by DeliriumsDelight7



Category: California Solo (2012), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst, Anyelle, Anyelle (Once Upon a Time), F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Off-screen dubcon, Oral Sex, Rumbelle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 115,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25603159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliriumsDelight7/pseuds/DeliriumsDelight7
Summary: Set Post-California Solo.  Failed Brit-Pop guitarist Lachlan MacAldonich returns to Scotland after his deportation, looking to either reconnect with his old life or avoid it altogether.  When he goes to a library looking for information, he didn't anticipate the compassion of a lovely, blue-eyed librarian.Winner of the Best Anyelle Fic award in the 2021 TEAs
Relationships: Belle (Once Upon a Time)/Lachlan MacAldonich
Comments: 179
Kudos: 36





	1. I Try to Say Goodbye and I Choke

**Author's Note:**

> I'm brand new to the RumBelle fandom, and have like six ideas buzzing in my head, but I just watched California Solo two weeks ago and was so unsatisfied by the ending that this story demanded to go to the top of the list. This is pretty much the first thing I've written in fifteen years that wasn't for school or work, so I'm a smidge rusty. Hope you enjoy!

Belle French glanced up from her book for the fifth time in ten minutes. The miniscule library was mostly empty, as it usually was on a Wednesday evening; a few parents with children were wandering the stacks for tonight’s bedtime story, but that was it. All of the recent returns had been reshelved, and she wouldn’t start her closing duties for a few hours, so she had time to read. And to watch.

The object of her observation was a man in his mid to late forties, if she were to guess. Standing just a handful of inches taller than her, he had a slim build. Too thin, she thought, but with wiry musculature and tanned skin that spoke of a career working outdoors. Perhaps somewhere sunnier than rainy Glasgow. His hair was a medium brown, with longish fringe framing his high cheekbones. The longer hair curling past his nape was shot through with gray. His wardrobe, outdated though it was, suited him well. The white of his button-down shirt only emphasized the healthy glow of his skin, and the tight jeans he wore lovingly hugged what Belle knew from previous visits was a _very_ nice butt.

The man had come to the library every day this week, never checking anything out or asking for any help. The first night, he lurked uneasily just inside the entryway, blinking in the harsh fluorescent lighting. Last night he fingered the magazines and periodicals guiltily. Tonight he was loitering by the library’s admittedly outdated computers, looking lost. At least, she thought he looked lost. It was hard to tell beneath the dark sunglasses he wore.

With a sigh, Belle put her book down, sliding her bookmark in place. As fascinating as it was to read about the young, angry orphan girl learning Allomancy, she could do that at home. She couldn’t resist finding out who this stranger was, and what he needed help with. Catching his eye, she gave him a welcoming smile. He ambled on over to the circulation desk, hands jammed into his pockets.

“Hi,” she greeted him warmly. 

His easy smile made her pulse race. “Hey.”

“I, um… I saw you here the last two nights. Not that I was watching you!” She winced. _Good going, Belle. Just announce to the handsome older man that you’ve been scoping him out. Not at all creepy._ “That is, I noticed you here, and thought you might need some help.” Belle swallowed hard against the butterflies that were threatening to flutter their way up her esophagus and come pouring out of her mouth. “So… do you? Need help?”

If his smile before brightened the room, his thousand-watt grin utterly blinded her. “Aye, I suppose I do,” he said. “You see, I’ve just moved back to the area, and was trying to find someone, but the phone pages aren’t what they used to be. Was wondering if you could help me look them up, or point me in the direction of someone who can.”

“We don’t have any sort of telephone directory,” Belle admitted, wrinkling her nose ruefully. “Besides, those can get tricky these days. More and more people are getting rid of their landlines. No sense paying for it when you’ve got a mobile,” she said with a shrug. “But you might be able to find them online.”

The stranger scratched the back of his head. “I don’t have a computer at the moment. Could I maybe use one of those?” he asked, gesturing toward where he’d been standing previously.

Belle beamed at him. “Of course! You just need a library card. Do you have one, or would you like me to set one up for you?”

“What do I need to get one?”

"Just proof of identity - a driver’s license, or government ID - and proof of residence,” she replied.

“Ah.” He fidgeted with the bracelet on his wrist, spinning the thick links around. “I, ah, don’t have that yet. Just got in last week. My only ID is from America.” Disappointment slumped his shoulders slightly. “Ah well. Thanks anyway, Miss.” 

“Wait!” Belle glanced quickly around. The head librarian, Mrs. Campbell, had gone home for the night, but you could never be too cautious. “You can use mine,” she said breathlessly. “Just leave your ID here, for collateral.”

That smile returned. “You’re sure you’re not breaking some secret Librarian’s Code?”

“Hmm… could be. For the transgression of granting the uninitiated access to the sacred archives, the penalty is forty paper cuts,” she quipped. _Ugh, a library joke? Very original._

Surprisingly enough, her stupid crack earned her a laugh. Oh, god, that laugh. She would gladly risk her job and a thousand papercuts besides to hear that throaty chuckle again. 

“Well, I suppose I’d better be quick, then. I’d hate to cause any harm to Glasgow’s prettiest librarian.” 

And now he was flirting with her. Her face heated, her lower lip snagged between her teeth. She ducked her head, hiding her flush behind her curls.

The man hesitated a moment, then fished his wallet from his back pocket and produced his ID. Belle very carefully did not let her fingers brush his when she accepted it. She glanced between the man and the card. He removed his sunglasses, revealing warm, whiskey-brown eyes with dark circles under them. The lines around them told her that he smiled often.

“Lachlan MacAldonich,” she read out loud.

“Met a lot of us, then, have you?”

Belle blinked. “What do you mean?”

Lachlan leaned forward, tossing his head to dislodge a strand of hair from his eyes. “I’ve never heard a non-Scot pronounce MacAldonich right on the first try,” he said.

“Well, you still haven’t,” she admitted. “The first time I tried to pronounce it, I absolutely butchered it.” Her lips curled in a soft, reminiscent smile. “It was my first week at the library, and I was trying so hard to learn the regulars’ names. This sweet older lady was looking for help using the computer, and we introduced ourselves. I must have stumbled over her last name four times before she just told me to call her Fiona.”

He froze. The lines around his eyes deepened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Fiona MacAldonich?” he confirmed.

"Yeah.”

“That’s…” He licked his lips. “That’s who I’m looking for. Fiona and Malcolm.”

“Oh.” Belle winced, sucking a breath through her teeth with a hiss. “Are you a…” She trailed off. _Of course he’s not a friend, you dolt! He’s a few decades younger, and shares a last name. He’s probably her son. Maybe a nephew._ “I, um… I don’t know how to say this.” His face was drawn in resignation, his eyes raw with pain. “She… passed. Two years ago.”

He nodded slowly, seeming unsurprised by the news. “And Malcolm?” he asked. His eyes avoided hers, fixing on the gray desktop as though the laminate fascinated him.

“Eight years ago. Before I came here.”

Another nod. “And, ah, do you know where they’re buried? If they’re buried?”

“There’s a church three streets over, with a cemetery.” She pointed vaguely in the general direction. “I… I know it’s not much consolation, but it was a lovely service. Lots of people came, and there were so many flowers. Lots of daffodils.”

“Her favorite.” He smiled weakly. “Not the news I was hoping for, but not wholly unexpected, either. Guess I won’t be needing to use that computer, after all.” He held out his hand for his license, which she returned to him. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss…?”

“French,” she offered. “Belle French.”

“Belle,” he said with a half-moon grin. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“You know where to find me.”

Belle watched as he left in silence. As soon as the door closed behind him, the breath rushed out of her in a whoosh. Of all the news she could give him, that had to be the worst. Clearly Lachlan had been away from home for a long time if he hadn’t known that his parents had passed. It must be awful to come home after all that time, just to find out from a stranger. Hopefully, he had a support system - some friends or family to help him process his grief.

******

Dead. Of course they were dead.

Lachlan slumped over the bar, head leaning heavily on one hand. Music blared from the jukebox in the corner, discouraging any sort of conversation. Thank fuck for that. The last thing he needed when his mood was this black was conversation.

He slung back the shot of well whiskey, repressing a grimace as it burned its way down his esophagus. He was solidly buzzed - if not tipsy - and if he had his way, he’d be pished within the hour. 

Both… fucking… dead.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Nearly two decades of hiding from his parents like the coward he was, and now that he was forced back here, he’d missed his chance to… to… something. It must take years off one’s life, mustn’t it - one son murdering the other? He wondered idly whether Cain and Abel’s parents had died young. He thought back to when he was a boy, and his da would read Bible verse after dinner. He was pretty sure there was something about Cain being unable to farm in the land where his brother was killed, being cursed to wander for all his days. How appropriate.

He gestured to the bartender for another shot. The great thing about getting sloshed on a weekday was how empty the bars were. He enjoyed a good party as much as the next bloke, but it was nice to be able to get a drink without having to wait for the bartender to notice you among the teeming throng. All the responsible adults were tucked in their beds so they could get up early to go to work in the morning.

Work. Fuck. He needed to find a job soon. He was paid up for the month on rent, and had a few hundred pounds left over from selling his guitar, but that would only last a week or two. _Three if I take it easy on the drinking_ , he thought wryly as he pounded back another shot. He didn’t want to think about that. He drank to forget his problems, and money was definitely a problem. Best to let his mind wander somewhere more pleasant.

Like the pretty librarian he’d met today. Belle. Beautiful Belle (and he tried not to think too hard about how recently he’d been thinking about Beautiful Beau. Apparently he had a type, and it was for girls with French names who were too young for a washed up old bawbag like him). He didn’t know librarians came like that. If his school library had been staffed by a pretty young thing who giggled and blushed when he turned on the charm, he might have hit the books a bit harder. 

And she knew his mam. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. She might know a bit about his mam’s last days. It would hurt like hell to hear, but… maybe he needed that. To stop running from his hurts. And there hadn’t been judgment in her eyes when she learned who he was. Which meant either she didn’t know what he’d done, or she didn’t hold it against him. Probably the former.

Another shot down the hatch. He did some mental calculations. He’d had eight shots so far, and at four pounds a shot, that was… was… Fuck it, it was probably a lot. More than he should be spending until he got a job. He paid his bill and walked very carefully out the door. His apartment was only a ten minute walk, but it may as well have been ten kilometers. Putting one foot in front of the other took all of his concentration.

Eventually he made it to his one bedroom apartment, staggering and sometimes crawling up the stairs to let himself inside. The place was barren except for a few necessities and the furnishings that had come with it. His clothes. Canned food and paper plates to eat off of. Some basic toiletries. Hardly a home. Once Warren shipped his things over, the place might be a bit less miserable. Maybe.

Once he got a job, he’d save up, buy a car. Some old beater he could drive to the bar and back. No chance of getting pulled over so close to home.

******

Belle settled into her tub with a sigh, letting the warmth of the water seep into her. The scent of lilacs wafted to her nose from the steam. A light sheen of sweat clung above her upper lip. A good long soak, a compelling book, and a warm cup of tea. What could possibly be better?

Normally she didn’t indulge in such luxury, but she was in a good mood and wanted to keep it going. It wasn’t every day that a handsome, worldly stranger came to her tiny library and flirted with her.

Her cheeks, already pink from the heat of her bath, flushed a deeper red. This was all so new. She didn’t _do_ sudden infatuations with men she’d barely met. Sure, she’d had her share of crushes, but nothing like this. She has this urge, this _need_ , to know him. His passions, his dislikes, his dreams. What made him laugh. What had put that pain in his eyes. There was a story there, and if there was one thing she couldn’t resist, it was a good story.

She was putting the cart before the horse, she knew. Just because he said she was pretty didn’t mean that he was interested in her. Even if he was, she didn’t want him to notice her just because she was pretty. She knew she was pretty. People had been telling her all her life how pretty she was. Never how smart, or how kind, or how hard-working - the traits she strove toward, the ones that mattered. Pretty faded. Pretty added nothing meaningful to the world. She wanted to make a difference, and she wanted someone to care when she did. 

Her roommate’s voice called out, interrupting her thoughts. “I’m going out, don’t wait up!”

Belle rolled her eyes. What kind of alcoholic went out drinking on a Wednesday? Responsible adults were all in for the night. “Fine, just remember to lock the…”

_Slam!_

“...door,” she finished. She huffed in irritation. No doubt she’d left the door unlocked again. Chances were good that Belle would be receiving a call at some ungodly hour asking for a ride home, as well. With a sigh she rose from the bath, water sluicing off her pale skin, and wrapped a fluffy towel around herself. A mad dash to the living room revealed that the door was in fact still unlocked. She slid the deadbolt in place with a click. She shivered, the water rapidly cooling on her skin. With a squeal she dashed back to the bathroom, sinking back into the welcoming water, book in hand. 

She read for about an hour before the cooling bathwater forced her to get out. Humming tunelessly to herself, she wrapped herself in her fluffiest bathrobe, toweled off her hair, and made her way back to her bedroom. She considered her book for a moment. The story was good, and she was eager to see what happened next, but… tonight she felt like painting her nails. Fingers and toes, she decided. Nobody would be seeing her toes, but painted toenails always gave her a bit of a confidence boost. She chose a lovely royal blue, put on a movie she’d seen a dozen times or more, and set to work on her feet first.

Unsurprisingly, her thoughts strayed back to Lachlan. She wondered what he was doing tonight. Was he thinking about her half as much as she thought of him? Would he come back to the library, or was tonight the last time she’d see him? He’d been to the library every day this week, but now that he’d gotten what he came for, he had no reason to come back. Either way, she wouldn’t be seeing him tomorrow; she had Thursdays off. 

Her toes done, she started on her fingernails. The dark color was striking against her pale skin. She’d always adored the contrast. If she was going to take the time to paint her nails, she wanted it to _pop_.

Maybe she should drop by the library tomorrow evening, just in case. After all, Lachlan might need something, and he didn’t have a library card yet. 

_Yes, go to work on your day off to maybe catch a glimpse of a sexy older man who maybe has a slight interest in you. That’s not at all pathetic._

“Shut up,” she mumbled as she changed into a comfy pair of purple pajamas. She crawled into bed, switched on her reading lamp, and curled up with her book. A quick check of her phone showed a mostly charged battery. Good - as much as she hated her roommate’s late-night calls begging for a ride home, she’d rather lose an hour or two of sleep than let her walk - or worse, drive - herself home drunk.

She would stay away from the library tomorrow, she decided. If he stopped by for general help, another librarian could do it. If he stopped by to see her… well, he could always come back on Friday.

She hoped he would come back on Friday.

******

Lachlan fiddled with his bracelet as he stood outside the library. He’d been standing outside the doors for twenty minutes, debating whether he should go in, or just say fuck it and leave for the bar. But it was Friday night, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the crowds. He had a perfectly good bottle of rotgut at home.

Against his better judgment, he’d come back to the library last night. Instead of the pretty brunette with the clear blue eyes, the circulation desk had been guarded by a dragon of a woman: Steel-gray hair pulled in a ruthlessly tight bun, green eyes assessing his every move for weakness, long red talons clicking impatiently on the desk. Her mouth was in a seemingly permanent pucker, from a lifetime of sucking either lemons, or the souls of any poor bastards who dared return a book late. 

He’d asked after Belle, and the glare he received in return was absolutely glacial. He was informed, in clipped tones, that Miss French was not working today. If he had an issue related to the library, all questions could be fielded to whomever was on staff; otherwise she would thank him not to distract her staff with personal banter.

A quick glance through the doors today showed that Belle was working again. She was currently loading books onto a cart. A loose curl fell across her forehead, which her fingers brushed aside absently. No customers were in sight, and the cranky old librarian from last night hadn’t made an appearance. If he wanted, he could see her without interruptions.

He hesitated, scrubbing his clammy palms on the rough fabric of his jeans. What was _wrong_ with him? Something about the petite woman at the desk called to him. Certainly it wasn’t just her looks; in the height of his fame (if it could be called that), he’d had more than his fair share of gorgeous groupies throwing themselves at him. In his experience, the only thing more attractive to a woman than a guitarist was a famous guitarist, and his star had been on the rise once upon a time. Belle was different. She didn’t dress or carry herself particularly provocatively. There was something about her, some quality he couldn’t put a finger on, that drew him in. Some sort of inner light that transformed this bookish girl into something extraordinary.

He ran his fingers through his hair and straightened the lapels on his fleece-lined denim jacket. It would have to do. With a fortifying breath he stepped inside.

There was no bell on the door, but you’d think there was with the way Belle’s head popped up as soon as the door opened. A smile lit up her entire face, the apples of her cheeks pinkening charmingly. 

“Lachlan!” she greeted. “I was wondering if you’d be back.”

With a welcome like that, who would ever stay away? Before he knew it, he was leaning on the desk by his forearms, giving her his most winning smile - the one he used to practice in front of the mirror when he was a much younger man. Judging by the deepening of her blush and the way she nibbled her lower lip, it wasn’t too rusty. _Still got it_ , he thought smugly. “Just thought I’d drop by,” he said casually, “see how my favorite librarian is doing.”

Belle snorted. “I take it Mrs. Campbell didn’t make a good impression on you?” she asked slyly.

Lachlan chuckled. “Heard about that, did you?”

She nodded with a giggle. “I got to hear all about how ‘this is a library, not a bawdy house!’” Her approximation of a Scottish accent was absolutely atrocious. “‘Your gentleman callers can meet you elsewhere, Miss French, but while you’re here I expect you to work!’”

“Ah, shite.” He scratched the back of his head, abashed. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble at work, Belle. I can go, if you like.”

Waving a hand dismissively, she said, “Don’t worry about it. She’s all bark and no bite. She knows I get my work done.” She moved a few more books to her cart. “So did you need help with something? Or did you just come for the pleasure of my company?” Her tone was light, but her eyes pointedly avoided his.

Here came the hard part. He could spend time flirting with Belle. She looked beautiful in her burgundy argyle sweater vest and cap-sleeved blouse, and her hair curled becomingly around her shoulders. Her style was different from the flowy, bohemian styles near L.A., but no less lovely. But that wasn’t the reason he was here.

Well. Not the only reason, anyway.

“Ah… both?” 

Her smile warmed. “Both is good,” she allowed. A mock serious frown lowered her brow. “So whatever can this humble library do for you, Mr. MacAldonich?”

“”Well… y’see…” Shit. It was easy enough to rehearse this conversation, but actually committing to it was another story. He couldn’t exactly make up some other excuse. It wasn’t like he could ask for help finding a book or something; he still didn’t have a library card. He’d gone to the Registers yesterday for a new ID. The temporary one was folded up in his wallet. 

Wait a minute. He still didn’t have a library card. He had his ID, and had received a letter from Warren this morning (the man refused to use emails). It was still tucked in his jacket pocket. Maybe it would work as a proof of residence.

“...I was hoping to get one of your famous library cards,” he finished.

“Famous, huh?” Belle smirked.

“Well, I hear they’re pretty handy. Free books, unlimited internet access, and I even hear they can prevent corporal punishment.” 

Belle cackled aloud at his reference to their last conversation, inhaling with a loud snort. Her face reddened behind the hands she’d clasped over her mouth. “Oh my god, pretend you didn’t hear that,” she moaned.

 _No chance in hell._ There must be something seriously wrong with him if he found a woman snorting attractive, but coming from that button nose it was fucking adorable. It was so refreshing to know exactly where he stood with a woman. There was no trace of the coy smiles, the practiced looks and the measured reactions that had colored his every interaction with women for as long as he could remember. Her blushes, her giggles, her smiles - they were all _real_. Every reaction to him was so genuine and open that he hardly knew what to do with them - all he knew was that he wanted more.

Belle cleared her throat. “Anyway… Let’s get you set up, hmm?”

Lachlan handed over his ID and watched her work. Her lower lip disappeared behind her teeth while she typed. With her so focused on what she was doing, it was easier to finally speak what was on his mind.

“So… you knew Fiona MacAldonich, right?” he asked. “Well enough to go to the funeral, at any rate, eh?”

Those blue eyes glanced up at him briefly, measuringly, before returning to her computer screen. “Pretty well,” she agreed. “She came in two or three times a week. I used to keep her company sometimes.”

And here came the part he was dreading. He wanted so badly to know everything he could about the family he’d lost. Belle was the one person he could ask whom he was reasonably certain wouldn’t judge him. But the idea of opening up and leaving himself vulnerable to a complete stranger was terrifying. No matter how pretty and kind she was.

“Could you…” Fuck, this was hard. “Could you tell me about her?”

“Of course! But, um…” She glanced around the library. A few patrons browsed the stacks idly, and one or two sat at computers. “I’d rather we weren’t interrupted while we talk. I get off work in thirty minutes. Maybe… we could take a walk or something?”

“I’d like that.”

“Great!” With a flourish, she handed him his new library card. “And here you are. This card can be used at any public library in Glasgow. So if there’s something you need that we can’t provide, the other libraries might be able to help.”

“I’m sure I can find everything I need here,” Lachlan murmured, delighting in her bashful smile.

“Um… right. Well, I just need to put all of these returns away, and then I’m all yours.” 

“Right. I’ll keep myself occupied.”

"Right.”

“Right.” They shared a snicker, breaking the tension. Belle pushed her cart out from behind the desk, and for the first time Lachlan got a glimpse of her below the waist.

His mouth went dry. A pleated tweed skirt swished around her thighs with each step. Pale, shapely legs seemed to go on for a mile before ending in a pair of impossibly high heels. The black spike under each of her heels could probably double as a weapon in a pinch. Firm muscle played under the creamy white skin of her legs, and the thought came unbidden that they would feel incredible wrapped around his waist. Or his head.

He wrenched his gaze away. Flirting with a younger woman was one thing. Ogling her and fantasizing about her two days after they met was another. He was pretty sure that Belle would be receptive to his advances, but his experience with Beau had left him on unstable ground. He’d been so certain that something had been developing between them, despite the presence of a boyfriend. If she was willing to flirt with a man, share a bed with him, and have him over for dinner… well, who was he to refuse? 

Clearly, he should have, because his drunken voicemail had ruined their friendship.

To occupy himself, he booted up one of the nearby computers. He hadn’t been able to check his emails in over a week. The letter from Warren had assured him that his things were on their way: his computer, his CDs and vinyl, his recording equipment. Once his computer was set up in his apartment, he wouldn’t need to come here anymore. 

His inbox was mostly filled with junk, but there was an email from Catherine. It was worded politely but firmly - Catherine had never been one to put up with his shit - letting him know that Arianwen would not be visiting until he had a steady job. Fair enough. She also wouldn’t be coming unsupervised; Catherine would come with her, and they would stay in a hotel. That was probably best. His initial attempts at fatherhood had been utter crap, and his more recent venture had been motivated purely by his own selfish needs. He wouldn’t trust himself to be a good dad, either.

He banged out a quick reply letting Catherine know that her conditions were fine. He included a brief summary of his progress, with maybe a little embellishment. Sure, he hadn’t started the job hunt _yet_ , but he would. Soon. 

Before he knew it, Belle was back at his side, shrugging into a royal blue peacoat. “Ready to go?” she asked.

He grinned in return. “Whenever you are.”

******

Twenty minutes later, Belle and Lachlan were strolling slowly down the sidewalk. The setting sun played with the first streaks of gray in his hair, highlighting the silver in his sideburns and stubble. As the temperature dropped, Belle was beginning to regret foregoing tights today with a shiver. And after ten hours of working in her sexiest heels, her feet were aching. Still, it had definitely been worth seeing the look on his face when he’d scopes out her legs earlier. The practical side of her, however, said otherwise.

_Yup. Continuing the long tradition of women putting themselves through pain to impress a hot guy. The Little Mermaid would be proud. At least you’re not quite as tongue-tied as she was._

“...and then she said, ‘Dinnae teach your Granny to suck eggs, ye auld funt!’” Belle said in her best approximation of Fiona’s Scottish burr.

Lachlan laughed aloud. “I believe it! Mam never- I mean, Fiona never… Ah, fuck it.” He sighed and scratched his nape, his eyes fixed in front of them. “Mam never liked being talked down to. You could show her how to do something a dozen times and she’d never remember it, but god help you if you dared so much as roll your eyes at her.”

“She was a hot shit,” Belle agreed with a wistful smile. She studied him from the corner of her eye. So she’d been right: Lachlan was Fiona’s son. She could see some resemblance in his high cheekbones and wide, thin-lipped mouth. Even without those hints, his manner gave it away. He seemed almost desperate for any tidbit of information she offered, but there was a quiet dread in his eyes any time she answered one of his questions. 

She hesitated before each answer, wondering if she was doing more harm than good. Clearly he needed answers, but she wasn’t exactly the best person to offer them. There were no siblings to ask; Fiona had mentioned having two sons in passing once, and if the gravestone next to hers was anything to go by, Lachlan’s brother Jed had passed years ago. Still, there had to be someone else. Why ask a librarian who had only seen her a few times a week? There was a story there, a story she burned to learn.

A story that was none of her business.

“Belle?”

“Hmm?” She jerked out of her reverie. “What is it?”

“Do us a favor, love.” He bumped her playfully with his shoulder. “Next time you tell a story, don’t bother with the Scottish accent.”

“Wh… Are you telling me that that wasn’t a perfect imitation?” Feigning hurt, she laid a hand dramatically on her breast.

“Well, I guess perfect is a word for it,” he allowed. “Just not at all an accurate one.”

“Slings and arrows!” She bumped him back. “I don’t have to take this. I’ll have you know that I can get all the criticism I want from the comfort of my own home,” she sniffed with affected haughtiness.

He snickered in response. “So what was so important that you had to show her how to use the computer every Monday?” he asked.

“A podcast, of all things.” At his disbelieving stare, she continued. “Weird, right? A woman who could barely use an internet browser or check her email religiously followed a podcast.”

“What…” He cleared the hoarseness from his throat. “What was the podcast about?”

“Oh god, it’s been a while. Let me think.” She remembered, of course. This was just a stall for time. Helping a woman to find a specific podcast on “the googles” every week for four years burned it into her memory. But judging by the look on Lachlan’s face, she was about to open a very nasty can of worms. “It was a podcast about famous dead rock stars. I always thought it seemed a bit odd, but who am I to judge?” She received no response. With a start, she realized that he’d stopped walking. “Lachlan?”

His entire demeanor had changed. His stance, previously open and friendly, was now hunched and guarded. Haunted brown eyes met hers in a fraught face. “How was she after she listened to the podcasts?” he demanded.

“How do you mean?”

“Was she angry? Sad? Upset?” 

This wasn’t good. “Lachlan, I...”

“Please, Belle.” He ran both hands roughly through his hair, mussing it up. “I need to know.”

This was _definitely_ not good. But now that she started, there was no stopping. “She… She seemed conflicted, I guess. She always brought a tissue or two with her.” She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Most times she cried a bit while she listened, but she was always smiling when she was done. Every time she finished she’d leave without a word.”

Apparently she’d said the exact wrong thing. If he’d been distressed when he found out about her death, now he was absolutely devastated. His brown eyes squeezed shut and he grimaced as though in agony. He staggered back a step.

“I’m sorry, Belle,” he muttered haltingly. “I just… remembered… I have to go.” Turning on his heel, he retreated without a backward glance.

Belle watched him go, unable to move a muscle until he rounded a corner and vanished from sight. Guilt gnawing at her stomach, she worriedly made her way home. Something horrible had happened between Lachlan and his parents, and she was at a loss to know what it was. She only hoped that he had someone at home to lean on. 


	2. The Rock-Ola's Fire Burns On and On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, did this chapter fight me every step of the way. The first two scenes did NOT want to be written. On the bright side, I seem to be finding my voice again.
> 
> Note: There will be some inconsistencies in timeline between the movie and this fic. I did the math while I was writing, and certain things just didn't add up. If Lachlan was 14 when Jed was 17, and Jed died without making it past 30, then Lachlan was 27 at most when Jed died (possibly younger). He tells the immigration officer he's called America home for 12 years, which puts him at no older than 39 during the events of the film. That seems pretty young, considering Robert Carlyle was roughly 50 when this was filmed, so I've extended his time in America to put him in his mid forties.
> 
> I apologize in advance to any Scottish people for my attempts at using local slang. I'm having a lot of fun looking it up, but am probably butchering it.

Necessity found Lachlan coming back to the library Monday morning. The sun shone in his eyes from behind the building, and he thanked God he’d remembered his sunglasses. His head throbbed, insisting that he should go back to bed, burrowing under his blankets until his skull knit itself back together.

He didn’t want to come back. After the way he ran from Belle on Friday - ran, just like he ran from all of his problems - he knew she was sure to have questions. And maybe she deserved the answers, but he just couldn’t give them. If he told her why he reacted so strongly to his mam listening to his podcasts, he’d have to explain that he’d avoided seeing her for over two decades. If he explained that, she would naturally wonder why. He wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready for her disgust.

A part of him had always thought he’d have forever to see his parents. They’d always seemed invincible to him - mam with her fiery temper, da with his relentless patience. They were forces of nature, constants in life that would neither fade nor die. Every year he considered visiting them, and every year he decided to wait. One more year would soften their hatred of him, he figured.

And now it was too late. Worse than that was the knowledge that his mother had apparently forgiven him. She’d forgiven him, and gave enough of a damn about him to keep up with what he was doing. He could have come to visit. He  _ should _ have come to visit. She’d died alone. Husband passed, older son dead before his time, younger son cowering on a farm in California, drinking and recording a podcast that meant fuck-all to anybody. 

The realization had destroyed him. Emotions he’d tamped down for years - regret, guilt, loneliness, anger, self-loathing - had risen up in his throat like bile to choke him. That was easily remedied; he washed them down with a tall glass of cheap whiskey. One drink had led to another, which had led to a weekend long bender. Get drunk, pass out, wake up, indulge in a little hair of the dog, restock booze, rinse and repeat. By Sunday he’d spent entirely too much money on drinking. If he was going to feed himself much longer, he needed to start the job hunt  _ today _ .

Which brought him here, to the library. He hadn’t had to look for work in years, but he knew that most employers only accepted online applications. Gone were the days of hitting the pavement with resume in hand. Hell, he didn’t even have a resume. Maybe that was where he should start. 

He didn’t have to be here. Belle had said it herself: his library card could be used elsewhere. At any other library in the city. He could turn around and never see her again. But as unbearable as her questions - her revulsion - would be, her absence would somehow be worse.

With a sigh he pushed the glass door open, allowing it to swing shut behind him. The old battleaxe of a librarian - Mrs. Campbell? - was manning the circulation desk. Judging by her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, he’d made an impression. Although maybe she just looked at everyone like that. Hopefully she wouldn’t insist that he take off his sunglasses. While the fluorescent lighting was easier on his head than today’s rare sunny day, every bit of dark and dim helped. 

Catching snatches of a familiar Australian accent, Lachlan glanced around. He spotted Belle toward the back of the room. Her royal blue lace dress stood out against the worn teal stuffed chair she perched in. A group of kids sat cross-legged at her feet. He was crap at judging kids’ ages, but if they weren’t in school then they must be five or below. She held a picture book up by her face, pictures turned out so the children could see as she read.

Her gaze met and held his. Without missing a single word of her story, she gifted him with a warm, beaming smile. He gave her a nod in return, turning away so as not to interrupt. Anyway, he wasn’t here to chat. 

The library was clearly busier during the day than in the evenings. The only available computer was at the very end of the long table - incidentally, the only one whose monitor fell under the formidable Mrs. Campbell’s unforgiving gaze. A few patrons lurked near the computers, studiously avoiding the lone machine. If he didn’t need the computer strictly to find work, he probably would have done the same.

The dingy gray office chair creaked ominously as he settled in, protesting even his slight weight. Booting up the dated computer and logging in took only a few moments, and soon he was looking up resume samples. He selected a black and white template with a plain font. No need getting fancy; he wasn’t going to be applying to any tech companies without so much as a high school diploma. 

Now, where to start? Professional summary? He’d come back to that. Skills? Picking vegetables, drinking himself blind, alienating everyone around him, and playing guitar. Work history was straightforward enough. Ten years at the farm. Another nine years in construction before that, back when he was with Catherine in L.A. Before that? Nothing worth mentioning. Finally, Education. He listed his high school and added “dropped out in ninth grade.” Which brought him back to “professional summary.” Fuck if he knew what to put there. He combed his fingers through his hair, racking his brains for  _ something _ to type.

******

Belle wrapped up story hour, making sure each child wound up with their respective parent. Some parents stopped to chat, starved for adult interaction after spending all day with their kids. Normally she liked to stick around and indulge them, but today she had other priorities. Mrs. Campbell was eyeing the clock every few minutes, the way she always did when someone had been on the computers for what she deemed was too long. Judging by her hawkish glare, Lachlan was the next to be unceremoniously kicked off, unless Belle intervened.

As she approached his work station, she took in his features. He looked… tired, more careworn than he had on Friday. His cheeks were roughened with a few days’ growth of stubble, and his skin had a slight grayish tinge.

She paused. The pallor, the sunglasses, the way his hands trembled on the keyboard… She was familiar enough with what alcohol withdrawal looked like to recognize the signs. No doubt his eyes were red and puffy behind the dark lenses.

Was this because of their conversation on Friday? Or had he just had a wild weekend?  _ It’s not your business, _ she reminded herself. 

“Hey,” she called softly. 

Lachlan jumped, whirling around in his seat. He relaxed with a self-deprecating grin, rubbing his temple absently. “All right, Belle?”

“Fantastic,” she replied. “How’s my second favorite patron doing?”

“ _ Second  _ favorite? I must be doing alright if I’m there already.” He fingered the silver links on his right wrist. “So what do I have to do to earn first place in your favor?”

_ I’m sure I can think of a few things. Preferably somewhere where being quiet isn’t rule number one. _ “You’ve got some tough competition,” she said, gesturing toward an elderly man reading in the corner. “Mr. Robertson brings me butterscotch biscuits once a week. They’re to  _ die _ for.”

“I don’t know if I can compete with that. I’m shite in the kitchen,” he admitted, chuckling.

_ Do not proposition the pretty man while you’re at work, Belle.  _ “So… what are you working on? Anything interesting?”  _ Good save. _

“Oh, you know.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the screen. “Gotta start looking for work. Figured I’d start by writing up a resume.”

She nodded. “Good idea. Lots of jobs demand one these days, and the ones that don’t might still like to see one.” She leaned in closer. The spicy scent of his cologne didn’t quite mask the underlying smell of alcohol. From last night, or had he drank this morning? “I don’t want to alarm you, but we’re being watched,” she murmured.

He chuckled. “Let me guess - the lovely Mrs. Campbell?”

“None other,” she confirmed. “She guards computer time like a dragon guards its hoard. She’s about five minutes away from booting you off.”

“Fuck,” he muttered with a ragged sigh. “I was hoping to get this done today.”

“She won’t kick you off if she thinks I’m helping you,” Belle said quickly. “I can look over your resume, if you like. Or pretend to, if you prefer.”

His shoulders slumped forward in relief. “God, would you? I’ve never written one of these things before. I’m afraid I’ve no idea what I’m doing.”

“Of course!” She rolled her chair up to the monitor and started scanning. 

After an hour, they’d worked out a passable resume. The professional summary had been a challenge; she didn’t know Lachlan well enough to describe him, and he had a hard time coming up with anything remotely flattering to say about his work ethic. His skills and work history sections had mentioned little other than picking, transporting and selling vegetables, but with some coaxing she hopefully got him to see how much of an asset he was in his time at the farm and the construction company. He flushed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat when she reached the education section. The only change she made there was to remove the reference to dropping out, simply including the years he’d attended. Employers would put the two together.

By the time they finished, Mrs. Campbell was staring daggers at the two of them. “Think I may have worn out my welcome,” Lachlan said.

Belle rolled her eyes. “Don’t take it personally. She hates when I get ‘too friendly’ with patrons. I swear she thinks librarians are the last line of defense keeping the teeming masses from our books.”

His lips quirked up in a bemused smile, his fringe falling in his face. Belle’s fingers itched to brush it back.. “Aren’t librarians supposed to help people?”

“Don’t tell her that,” she whispered. “She might have an existential crisis and quit. I’ll be promoted, and all that power will go straight to my head.”

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” He tossed his head to dislodge the hair from his eyes. “I should be heading out anyways. Listen, it was lovely seeing you again. Really lovely. Can I stop by again?”

Belle bit her lip around a smile, her cheeks warming. “I’d love that,” she said. “I work Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Our  _ quieter  _ hours - ” here she glanced toward the circulation desk, “...start after 4PM on weekdays. But if you need to come here to submit applications or anything, you can obviously come any time.”

“Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays after four,” he recited. “Got it.” 

Hesitantly, he reached out a hand and laid it on hers, squeezing slightly. The warmth of his work-calloused fingers seeped through her skin, suffusing through her veins and coming to rest low in her belly. She inhaled sharpy through her nose. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his handsome face.

“ _ Ahem! _ ” The head librarian cleared her throat loudly. Spell broken, they both yanked their hands back as though they’d been burnt. 

“Right,” said Lachlan, “That’s my cue. See you later, Belle.” His chair squealed as he rose to leave.

Belle remained in her seat, watching him walk toward the exit.  _ There really should be a law against wearing tight jeans with an arse that fantastic _ , she thought, nibbling on her lower lip.

“ _ Ahem! _ ” Mrs. Campbell glowered at Belle, lips pressed in a thin, disapproving line. “If you’re quite finished, Miss French, there are bookshelves to be dusted.”

Belle wasn’t fooled. Dusting was done at closing, not in the late morning hours. If the older woman wanted to punish her for flirting on the clock, that was her prerogative. As far as Belle was concerned, it was just one less thing to do at the end of her shift.

******

Lachlan stood outside the small cemetery gate, the wrought iron bars separating him from the gravestones housed within the stone walls. It looked nice enough. The grass was vibrant green and meticulously manicured, the stones clean and in good repair. Winding cobblestone paths were well maintained. If he were dead, he might like being buried here.

This morning’s rare clear blue sky was now obscured behind clouds, their dark bottoms ominously threatening rain. When he’d first gotten here nearly an hour ago, they hadn’t been nearly so menacing. Maybe they were trying to tell him something.  _ Shit or get off the pot _ , or maybe  _ run away with your tail between your legs; you’re good at that _ .

Heart threatening to hammer its way out of his chest, he scrubbed his clammy palms on his jeans. This shouldn’t be so fucking hard. It was just a graveyard. Just two lumps of stone with names and dates carved on. And possibly a third that he would avoid at all cost. Nothing to be abjectly terrified of. His breath came in soft pants, throat dry but too thick to swallow.

The first drop of rain plinked against his nose, jolting him from his panic. The weather was turning, he noted with no small amount of relief. If he stayed any longer, he ran the risk of getting soaked through. Turning his collar up against the rising wind, he hurried back to his empty apartment.

Two hours later found Lachlan sitting at a noisy bar with a beer in one hand and his head in the other. His fringe hung in his face, veiling him from the pub’s few other patrons. His elbow rested in some sticky substance he didn’t want to think about too closely. Music blared from the jukebox in the corner, and one foot tapped absently against the leg of his barstool to the beat. 

He shouldn’t be here. After an entire weekend of getting right plastered, he needed to take it easy for a few days. He’d tried. He’d tried staying in his dingy, one bedroom apartment. But it was just so fucking  _ empty _ . The yellowing walls loomed around him, trapping him with nothing to distract him from his thoughts. The few diversions available to him - a meal of microwaved soup, shaving the weekend’s accumulated scruff, a few halfhearted strums of his acoustic guitar - hadn’t been enough to pull him from the feeling of being shut in, imprisoned in the brig of a ship that was rapidly taking on water. Panic had welled up again in his chest, and in his cowardice he fled to the one place that could always offer either comfort or numbness. Or in the absence of either of those, forgetfulness the next morning.

He’d just have a couple of beers, he reasoned. A few hours of music, of color shining from the neon beer advert signs would do him good. Pull him out of his dark mood.

Even a cold brew and a change of scenery couldn’t dispel the feeling of being trapped. Trapped in a place that held nothing for him. No family. No friends. No home - not really. No job. California had held… well. Not everything. But enough, if he’d just been smart enough to appreciate it. A job he’d enjoyed, been good at, with people who had genuinely liked him before he’d fucked it all up. A beautiful, smart daughter he was just getting to know before he had to leave (though to be fair, if he weren’t such a fuck-up he probably never would have bothered meeting her). Beautiful weather, good people, plenty to do. Only thing lacking was his love life. 

Here, though, that last might change. Even after his sudden retreat on Friday, she still seemed happy to see him. More importantly, she didn’t judge him. She knew that he was a jobless high school dropout who’d done nothing important with his life. He’d thought for sure that she would pull back from him when she saw how much of a fuck-up he was, but she hadn’t. She worried about him, though. About last Friday, or could she tell how hard he’d hit the bottle this weekend? She might know his work and school history, but that didn’t scratch the surface of how much he’d fucked up in life.

So wrapped up in his thoughts was he that the familiar opening chords pouring from the jukebox didn’t register at first. Fuck. Of course it was only a matter of time before one of his songs came up in a jukebox. One of Jed’s songs. It was the most popular song off of Bank Street Waltz - the one that had seen an obscene amount of radio play back in the day.

Lachlan lowered his head further, hoping his hair was long enough to hide him. Maybe it was a coincidence. It had been nearly two decades. His face had changed, and nobody would recognize him from the back of an album that old.  _ Beau’s moronic fandan of a boyfriend recognized you, though, didn’t he? _

“Hey” A thick finger prodded him roughly on the shoulder. “Hey, you.”

“I’m drinking,” Lachlan said shortly, hoping this idiot would take the hint.

“Sure, sure.” That finger poked him again. “Nobody’s stoppin’ ye. Jus’... tha’s you, innit? On the jukebox. Tha’s you.”

He didn’t bother turning around. The man behind him was drunk. Hopefully drunk enough to get bored easily, and not drunk enough to become like a dog worrying a bone. “You’ve got me mixed up with someone else, mate.”

“Nahhhhhh, I don’t,” the man slurred. “M’baby brother listened to this song all th’ time. Drove the rest of us right barmy.”

“That’s nowt to do with me,” he growled. “Time to fuck off and let me drink in peace, yeah?”

“Peter fuckin’ loved that album.” Now the drunk was reminiscing. Fucking perfect. “Bawled like a baby when that singer OD’ed, he did. Fucking waste,” he added. “Maybe if th’ fucker had kept ‘is nose clean ‘stead of snorting whatever was put in front of it, ‘e’d still be kickin’, eh?”

Lachlan didn’t know what happened. One second his vision was going red, the next he was being thrown bodily from the pub, knuckles and nose bloodied. He gave better than he got, if the taller man’s bruises and broken nose were anything to go by. Not surprising. Seven years as the shortest man in Manchester’s party scene had given him a mean right hook and a reputation to match. The man swayed on his feet, considering whether to continue the fight.

Lachlan bared his teeth in his fiercest snarl. “I said  _ fuck off _ , mon!” he yelled. “Fuckin’ scram, ye wee dick, afore I rip your fucking throat out!”

That decided him. The man took off at a trot - or at least his best attempt at one. His legs tangled beneath him, causing him to pitch forward flat on his face. 

...Fuck. As quickly as it had come, the fight whooshed out of Lachlan as though it had never been. Less than two weeks back in Glasgow and he was already getting in bar fights like a pure bampot. Hadn’t even been drunk; he’d only had two or three beers. He hadn’t gone drinking looking for a fight - not like he used to in his younger days - but the man’s words about Jed had unleashed something in him. Something ugly. Something with glowing red eyes, wicked claws, and crooked teeth.

Something he didn’t want to think about right now.

He was tempted to go to another bar. The idea of rattling around that empty apartment for the rest of the night unsettled him. But he’d already gotten into a fight tonight, and in his current mood he wasn’t sure he could keep his temper. He’d already spent two nights too many drunk off his arse in a jail cell in California. He wasn’t eager for a third.

Maybe he’d just go home. Call it a night, and hope things looked a bit brighter tomorrow.

******

Belle rolled over in bed, awoken by the chirp of her phone as she received a text. She glanced at the glowing green digits of her alarm clock. Two in the morning. No need to guess who was texting her. The bars closed, and her roommate needed a ride home. Typical. Just to be sure, she checked her phone.

_ Pjck me uo. _

Yup. That was Drunkish for “pick me up.” The next message was the name of a pub. At least it was close by. If she hurried, she could be back in bed thirty minutes from now. Once in a while, her roommate had her drive forty-five minutes away to pick her up, ruining her sleep for the rest of the night.

She didn’t bother changing into regular clothes - just threw a jacket over her cheery yellow pajamas and slipped on the ugly clogs she’d specifically bought for nights like these. Out the door (locking it behind her), down the stairwell, onto the street and into her tiny blue coupe. She could do this all in her sleep. Not that she ever allowed herself to drift off. Driving tired was nearly as dangerous as driving drunk, which would negate the whole point of picking up her roommate’s pickled butt.

It was a quick drive to the pub, and a quick drive home. Her passenger yammered on about some local guitarist getting into a barfight or something. Belle didn’t pay attention; as soon as her roommate sobered up, they’d be back to avoiding and sniping at each other in turns.

They both stumbled into the apartment - one drunk off her arse, the other exhausted from far too many nights just like this one.  _ Just one night _ , Belle wished fervently.  _ Just one night where I get to sleep all night without having to pick her up, or worry she’s killed someone driving drunk. _

Well, if wishes were horses and all that. She kicked off her clogs, hung up her coat, and helped the inebriated woman into bed. Sleeping in her clothes wouldn’t kill her, and Belle couldn’t be bothered to change her into something more comfortable. She finished her nightly routine by leaving a tall glass of water and two NSAIDs on the nightstand. She wouldn’t be thanked for it, but making her roommate a bit less cranky in the morning was reward enough.

With a yawn, she settled back into the warm nest of her bed, snuggling into the pillow as sleep pulled her gently back into its grasp. Her last thought as she drifted off was of Lachlan, and how she missed seeing his warm brown eyes. Maybe she’d ask Mrs. Campbell if there was a rule against wearing sunglasses in the library.


	3. Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want

Belle checked the clock for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was past four on Friday, and Lachlan would hopefully be here any minute.

It had quickly become a routine between the two of them. He would come to the library in the morning, strictly to submit job applications online. During that time, things stayed professional; as far as anyone was concerned, he was just a patron looking for work, and she was a clinically detached librarian. By Wednesday, Mrs. Campbell’s vendetta had calmed from seething dislike to the same cool disdain she showed most patrons. 

Evenings were a different story. Evenings were _theirs_. The library was deserted (or close enough that they were rarely bothered by anyone needing any help). As the light from the setting sun dwindled, they were free to flirt and tease to their hearts’ content. Teasing quips and sly compliments led to silly grins and bashful blushes. As they grew bolder, they added tentative touches to their repertoire: a lingering brush of fingers here, tucking a curl behind an ear there. 

Belle had always thought libraries were magical places. They offered information, fraternity, peace, and countless doorways into other worlds. Best of all, they were made available to anyone in the community, at no charge. When her life had crumbled around her as a teen, the library had offered her the sanctuary her home could no longer claim to be. All she’d ever wanted to do with her life was offer the same to anyone who needed it. 

Lachlan’s evening visits added a breathtaking new level of enchantment to it all. She was reluctant to ask him on a date, half afraid that seeing him outside of her little shrine of learning and safety would break the spell woven between them, causing it to vanish like a soap bubble. Still - nothing ventured, nothing gained.

A movement from the entrance caught her eye, and there he was, eyes crinkling in pleasure as he caught her eye. The first two buttons of his faded denim shirt were left undone, revealing an appealing triangle of skin. He looked so much better than he had last Monday. The pallor had left his skin, and he didn’t hold himself so carefully, as though one wrong move would crumble him to dust. Best of all, his sunglasses were nowhere in sight. Those expressive brown eyes were far too lovely to hide behind darkened lenses.

“All right there, Belle?” he asked, taking up his customary position: forearms leaning on the desk, shoulders slightly hunched.

“Better now that you’re here,” she replied before she could talk herself out of it. 

Her line didn’t have the effect she’d intended. Instead of taking the compliment, he frowned, a crease appearing between his brows. “What happened?” His warm hand took hold of hers and squeezed gently.

“Oh - no - nothing happened,” she stammered, returning his squeeze reassuringly. “Everything’s fine. I just meant… when you visit me, it brightens my entire day. It gives me something to look forward to,” she admitted, chewing her lower lip apprehensively. _God, I hope I’m not showing my hand too soon._

The smile he gave her nearly broke her heart. His lips trembled, his eyebrows drew together, and his eyes… Oh, his eyes. They practically glowed with hope, but also ached with a quiet vulnerability that made her want to clasp him to her breast and never let go. How lonely he must be, how starved for affection, to be brought close to tears just from her fumbling attempt at a compliment. She would tell him how wonderful he was every day if it made him smile like that.

Too soon, the spell was broken; Lachlan pulled back, clearing his throat and making a show of scratching his eye. Belle pointedly turned away, sifting through books on the return cart that she’d already organized an hour ago to give him a moment of privacy. If her absent humming failed to drown out a sniff or two, well, she could pretend not to hear.

He cleared his throat again, and Belle glanced over her shoulder. His grin was back in place - maybe a little strained around the eyes, but genuine nonetheless. 

“Sorry about that. I’m always forgetting to organize the books before I put them away,” she lied, returning to her spot at the counter, diagonally across from him. “Then I have to go back and forth, trying to find where everything goes.” That part was true; Belle had done that dozens of times when she’d first started working at the library. 

“Sounds like a right pain in the arse.”

“Ugh, you don’t have to tell me. I’ve had to stay late more than a few times getting things put away properly.” She shrugged. “It’s either that, or get lazy and just jam books wherever they’ll fit and hope nobody notices,” she said airily.

He chuckled, tossing a few stray hairs from his eyes. “I can imagine. Some poor sod will be looking for a book on gardening, and you’ll have gone and shelved it with the erotica.”

“I can think of worse mix-ups,” she murmured. 

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desktop, hands mere centimeters away from his. In the week and a half since she first saw him, they’d never been this close. From this close, she could see how the light played in the silver of his five o’clock shadow. His fringe hung just slightly in his face, casting shadows that only whetted his already sharp nose and cheekbones in a striking chiaroscuro. 

“Oh?” A frown marred his brow, briefly, as his nut-brown eyes scanned her face with care. Whatever he saw must have pleased him, because his own face broke out into a slow, sly smile, eyes crinkling mischievously. One hand crept slowly closer, sliding over the back of her own, engulfing it in warmth.

“I’ve…” She swallowed against the mass of butterflies taking flight in her stomach, forcing them down. Her hand turned over under his so they touched, palm to palm, his calloused skin scraping deliciously against her softer flesh. “I’ve read enough erotica over the years to know that it’s rife with plant imagery.” Was that her voice? She’d never heard it like that before: low, dark, and smooth, like incense smoke and dark chocolate. “With the right pictures, a flower book would fit right in.”

“I’ve never read any erotica,” Lachlan confessed, his voice deepening to match her own. A single strand of hair fell into his eyes. “So I guess you’ll have to give some examples. To prove it.” His thumb rasped over the heel of her palm, and she shivered.

“Mmm… Let’s see.” A quick twist flipped the positions of their hands, leaving his at her mercy. Her fingers ran, feather-light, from his palm heel to his fingertips: gentle, tickling touches that left his fingers twitching reflexively. There were a few passages she normally had memorized: poetry and prose of sexual awakening, of blossoming under a lover’s touch. But the words all scattered beneath the onslaught of his spicy scent, the heat that radiated off of him, the spark of lust in his eyes. “I’ve read of tender buds furling in the heat of a palm,” she whispered, and did his eyes flicker downward for a second? “Of dewey petals opening to the light.” Finally, she relinquished her gentle torment of his palm. Her hand moved up, up, achingly slowly, to brush that strand of hair from his eyes. From there it continued its journey, over the honed edge of his cheekbone, down to caress the roughness of his stubble. “Of honeyed nectar, sweet and musky on the tongue.” Her thumb caressed just under his mouth, not quite daring to ghost over his lower lip. A sharp intake of breath hissed between his teeth. 

He bumped her nose with his, nudging, nuzzling. When had he gotten so close? “What else?” His breath fanned over her face in counterpoint to her own, inhaling on her exhale, pushing and pulling like the tide. His tongue darted out to taste her thumb, the moist heat of it shooting a bolt of _want_ through her that left her thighs rubbing together, urgent for relief.

“Oh god,” she moaned.

“What else, Belle?” His lips hovered, mere millimeters away from her own, waiting, waiting. “Say it. Say what you want.”

“L-lips,” she stammered desperately. “Petal-soft lips that blossom under a lover’s kiss. Lachlan, _please_ …”

“Hullo, Belle!”

With a muttered curse, Lachlan stumbled back two steps. He glanced down quickly, swore again, and stepped forward until his hips were flush with the desk once more.

Belle blinked a few times, dazed. Her brain was still attempting to catch up with her abrupt change in circumstances. Standing behind Lachlan was a diminutive elderly woman wearing a floor-length black dress, a black wide-brimmed sun hat adorned with ribbon flowers, and a worn fox fur stole. Her wrists rang with costume bangles. “Dahlia! You’re… you’re looking lovely as usual.”

Dahlia Reid preened, stroking her stole affectionately. “As are you, dear. And it looks like I’m not the only one who noticed.” 

Surprisingly enough, Belle’s face didn’t heat in a blush. It wasn’t that she wasn’t embarrassed, but if the dull throbbing between her thighs was any indication, she didn’t have the blood to spare. “Um… about that, Dahlia…”

The older woman waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t you worry about me. I can keep a secret better than most,” she said with a wink. “You always let me sneak tea and a nosh in here without telling Mrs. Campbell. If you want to canoodle with your young man, your secret’s safe with me.” Her eyes slid slyly to Lachlan, eyeing him from behind. If Belle wasn’t mistaken, she took quite the gander at his butt.

 _Can’t say I blame her._ Since Belle had been checking out his arse since before they’d even met, she didn’t exactly have room to criticize. 

“Um… thank you.” Finally, her brain registered the book in Dahlia’s hand. “Checking out?”

“Her eyes flickered up and down Lachlan’s backside again. “Oh yes,” she agreed, a lascivious smirk spreading her pink-painted lips.

Belle quickly took care of Mrs. Reid’s request and sent her on her way with a wave. As soon as the older woman was gone, Belle covered her face with her hands, groaning in embarrassment and sexual frustration. 

“Seconded.” It was gratifying to hear that Lachlan was as breathless as she felt. God, her lips were tingling and oversensitive, and he hadn’t even kissed her. 

They both stood in uncertain silence - Lachlan with his hands shoved in his pockets, Belle toying nervously with a curl. 

With a nervous giggle, Belle broke it. As much as she wanted to pick up right where they’d left off, she ruefully admitted that the moment had been lost. “Well, that could have gone a lot worse.” 

Lachlan’s fingers slipped uneasily through the hair at his nape, ruffling it. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Belle. It seems like I keep getting you in trouble at work.”

She shook her head, her curls sliding across her shoulders. “Not your fault. I’m the one at work, I should be more careful.”

His tongue darted out to lick his lower lip, and Belle’s eyes eagerly followed the movement. If the heated look in Lachlan’s eyes were any indication, he noticed. “Maybe,” he allowed. “But I started it.”

“And I escalated it. What’s your point?” His mouth opened and closed a few times, clearly lacking a good answer, so Belle drew a fortifying breath and continued. _Be brave._ “Lachlan, I love having you visit me at work; I already said so. But… maybe we could see each other outside of the library?”

His throat bobbed, and the fingers of his left hand strayed to the links on his right wrist. “What did you have in mind?” he asked hoarsely. 

That definitely wasn’t a no. “Well… are you free Sunday morning?” she asked. “We could go out for coffee, or tea.” _Or me_ , she added silently.

“That would be fantastic.” One hand ran through his fringe, pulling it back from his face. He seemed to recover some of his composure, because that slow, sexy grin of his finally made another appearance. Her heart raced at the sight of it.

 _God, does he have any idea what that smile does to a girl?_ Belle suspected he did. There was no way a man could go around _smiling_ like that without noticing all of the female attention he got. And if he knew the effect his smile had, chances were good that he wanted to have that effect on her specifically.

She answered his smile with a silly grin of her own. “Great! There’s a cafe just down the street from here - Sacred Grounds. Do you know it?”

“Aye, I pass it to get here. I take it they’re good?”

“Well, I can’t speak for their coffee, but they brew a lovely cup of tea,” she replied. “Plus their baked goods are _amazing._ I could have their cream buns every day and never get sick of them.”

“Cream buns and butterscotch biscuits, eh?” he asked with a roguish smirk. “I’m sensing a pattern here.”

“The best ways to my heart: baked goods, books, and a warm cup of tea,” she agreed. “I’m easy to please.”

“I’ll remember that.”

 _Oh, now that’s just not fair._ There was absolutely no reason why such an innocuous statement should set her nerves aflutter. She had it _bad._

Clearing her throat, she searched for a change in subject. “So…” One hand went to her ear, playing absently with a curl there. “So how goes the job search?”

Lachlan’s smile was replaced with a rueful grimace, and Belle briefly mourned the loss. “Still waiting to hear back on those two interviews. I’ve got three more next week. Hopefully one of those pans out.”

“They will,” she reassured him. Her hand reached for his, giving his fingers a comforting squeeze. “You’re in here every day, putting yourself out there. Somebody will snap you up before you know it.”

He squeezed back. “Thanks, Belle.”

******

Lachlan shivered as he ducked into his apartment building, grateful to be out of the light drizzle. His denim shirt clung unpleasantly to his skin, chilling him slightly. In a few minutes he’d be back in his barren apartment. The prospect of changing into dryer clothes was small comfort when confronted with yet another night spent in silence and solitude, but it was a comfort.

“Oi, MacAldonich!” 

He turned toward the landlord’s office, the dark green door standing out against the hideous pink wallpaper. “All right, Don?”

The squat, bald man with the toadish face beamed affably. “Living the dream,” he replied. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Good news, mate! Got yer packages in me office.”

Relief flooded through him in a rush. “Cheers! I’ll have them out of your hair in a bit. Let me just change into something dry.”

Twenty minutes later saw him changed into a baggier pair of jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. The snug jeans he’d been wearing were fine for catching the eye of beautiful blue-eyed librarians with auburn curls and brilliant smiles, but didn’t allow the range of movement needed to lift with the legs. Right now there was nobody around to impress, and the last thing he needed was to throw out his back. He had a job search to continue, and - more immediately - a date he refused to miss in two days.

By the time he finally finished hauling all of the boxes up to his apartment, he was sweaty and ready for a shower. Unpacking could wait until after he washed the sweat and grime off. He stripped down in the middle of the apartment, chucking his clothes toward the designated dirty clothes corner that currently served as a temporary hamper. His route to the bathroom took a slight detour to the fridge to snag a shower beer - a practice Warren had turned him onto back in California. _Nothing like a hot shower and a cool beer to relax the day away_ , he’d said.

As Lachlan stepped under the hot spray, his thoughts strayed to the one distraction that was keeping him sane: Belle. So far she was the one bright spot in an otherwise miserable homecoming. Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings were the high point of his existence. It wasn’t just the flirting, or the fact that she was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. It was the way she treated him: like she actually gave a damn, like he mattered. She seemed to genuinely care about his wellbeing. If she’d been a frumpy elderly woman, he would have valued her for that alone. Her kindness was a balm to his soul.

Of course, Belle _was_ stunningly beautiful. And if he’d had any doubts about her interest before today, they’d been dismissed by their encounter in the library. Taking a swig of hoppy suds, savoring its bitter tang, he allowed his mind to wander back to the afternoon. With just a few light touches and a handful of flowery metaphors, she’d managed to bring him to full, aching hardness with no thought to where he was. His loins throbbed at the memory, his cock stirring hopefully. Hot water pounded down his back in a steady tattoo. Beer still clenched in one fist, his free hand strayed down to his groin, fingertips teasing himself with the same gentle brushes she’d tormented him with earlier. Those soft fingers would feel like heaven on his shaft.

As he continued to tease himself, he tried to remember the exact words she’d murmured in that breathy whisper. The words weren’t as important as the meaning behind them; anything that she mentioned was something that aroused her, something that made her eyes dilate and her face flush. How far down did that flush go? Would it reach down to her nipples, the peaked tips begging for the heat of his hands, his mouth? Would she want him to venture still lower, to sip and lick at her nether lips? She must - she’d brushed fingers against his mouth when she spoke of tasting her nectar. And would she want to take him in her mouth, to taste him in return? 

Tired of teasing, he wrapped his hand around his length, stroking slowly from root to tip, savoring the unquenched ache. One more swallow of beer helped to cool his enflamed nerves before fumbling fingers placed the bottle on the rim of the tub. Finally free to touch, his newly liberated hand cradled the smooth skin of his sac, eliciting a hiss of excitement as his chilled digits came in contact with his heated flesh. 

“Yes,” he hissed, fisting himself in earnest.

His thoughts came fractured now as he focused on his pleasure. Images flickered behind his eyes one by one as the throb in his cock increased in urgency. Belle’s teeth sinking into that plush lower lip. Her pale, shapely legs, and how they would feel wrapped around him. The shape of her breasts beneath her blouse. The look on her face when she’d begged for his kiss - eyes dilated, cheeks red, mouth open and panting and needy and _Lachlan, please_ \- 

That sweet plea was his undoing. Fire roared through his veins, his entire body tightening as he came in thick, hot spurts. The hand holding his balls shot out to brace himself against the shower wall as his knees threatened to give out underneath him. With his right hand he worked himself through his orgasm, hips twitching with the aftershocks.

Lachlan allowed himself a few minutes to enjoy the afterglow - hot water sluicing down his back, head floating pleasantly from the beer he’d drank, blood thrumming in his veins in the aftermath of his satisfaction. As the last evidence of his pleasure swirled down the drain, he set about washing himself, his movements methodical and efficient. Once done, he quickly toweled himself off and changed into a white T-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants.

Grabbing another beer, he cracked it and all of his packages open. His CDs and vinyls could be sorted and put away later. For now, he wanted to get his computer set up right away. If nothing else, he could drown out the noise of his thoughts with either music, or a movie. Assuming Warren hadn’t booted him from his family Netflix account.

It didn’t take long for Lachlan to set up the basics of his computer: tower, monitor, mouse, and keyboard. The recording equipment could wait. He hadn’t exactly been feeling inspired lately, and the previous subject had run its course. He’d prodded the still-bleeding wound that was Jed’s death - his entire reason for starting that podcast - and had ended it with a note of finality. Now it was time for something new.

Booting up the computer and connecting it to the wifi was a quick process. Lachlan was pleased to see that if Warren was planning on logging him out of Netflix, he hadn’t gotten around to it yet. He’d throw on something mindless in a bit - a comedy, or something with explosions and ridiculous martial arts. First, he wanted to check his email.

“Junk, junk, junk, junk,” he muttered, deleting each entry. Then he came to an email from “Ari MacAndCheese” with the subject line, “Hi! It’s Arianwen =D.” He clicked it and read.

_Hi,_

_My mom told me that you talked her into letting me come visit you for a week this summer. She wants to come with me, so I guess we’ll be getting a hotel room together. I hope that’s okay._

_I don’t know when you wanted me to come to Scotland, but I was thinking we could do it at the end of summer break, maybe. That way I can work at the coffee shop all summer. It’s a temp job, so I can’t really get time off. If I put my last day in near the end of August, that’ll give me time to see you before school starts. Plus, then I’d get to see you for my birthday. Does that work for you?_

_I know we were just getting to know each other, and now that’s going to be really hard with you so far away. If you want, we can email each other. I also have a WhatsApp account if you want to do video calls. But you don’t have to if you don’t want. I know the 8 hour time difference will be a pain in the butt._

_I hope you write back soon. But don’t feel like you have to._

_Love,_

_Arianwen_

_P.S. I don’t really know what I should call you. Do you want me to call you dad, or Lachlan?_

Lachlan’s throat ached, and he swallowed thickly against the tears that welled in his eyes. Arianwen’s email was so timid and unsure that it broke his heart. He’d fucked up so badly if his beautiful, caring, smart daughter doubted that he would write her back. “Oh sweetheart,” he whispered.

He checked the date of the email. She’d sent it four days ago, now, and hadn’t received a response. By now, she must assume that he couldn’t be bothered. There was only one thing for it: he had to write back immediately. He started typing immediately, index fingers picking each letter on the keyboard.

_Dear Arianwen,_

_Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. My computer just arrived today, so I just saw your email. I’ve been using a computer at the library to find work, but the head librarian frowns on checking personal emails._

_Catherine told me that she’d be coming with you, so that’s not a problem. Let’s face it - I don’t have much experience being a dad, so keeping the training wheels on for your first visit is probably a good idea. Late August sounds perfect. Let me know the exact dates so I can be ready for you._

_I would love to get to know you better any way I can, Arianwen. I’m not familiar with WhatsApp, but I’ll muddle through. Give me a few days to get my recording equipment set up, and we’ll figure out a time that works best for both of us._

_Call me whatever you like, sweetheart. If you want to call me dad, I’ll be thrilled. If you’re not ready for that, Lachlan is perfectly okay. Whatever you want._

_Love,_

_Lachlan_

_P.S. Please don’t think you’re ever a bother to me. If you feel that way, it’s my failing, not yours. You have become an incredible young woman, and I can’t wait to know more about you. Hopefully I can prove that to you._

_P.P.S. MacAndCheese?? Sounds like there’s a story there. =-)_

After nearly an hour of carefully considering what to say, he hit Send. With a groan, he leaned back in his seat, rubbing his eyes. He had no clue how some people could stare at a computer screen all day; if he did for more than an hour, his eyes felt ready to pop out of his head.

Draining the dregs of his third beer, he briefly considered getting another before deciding against it. He really needed to slow down. The cash in his wallet was dwindling daily, and soon he wouldn’t have anything left. As it was, he had to make sure he had a few pounds available for his date on Sunday. Hopefully Belle wouldn’t want to do anything too expensive after coffee; he’d hate to have to embarrass himself on a first date.

After a quick browse through Netflix, Lachlan chose a mindless comedy he’d already seen a few times. Something to keep the quiet of the apartment from getting to him, while still letting his mind wander. Yawning, he folded his hands behind his head , kicked his feet up on the desk, and relaxed. Nothing to do but let his mind wander until he was ready to go to sleep.

Maybe if he thought long enough, he’d remember when the hell his daughter’s birthday was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... crap. I wasn't planning on attempting sexual tension or anything for several more chapters. I was just planning on some more flirty-flirty, but apparently these two horndogs had other ideas. This kinda throws a wrench in my plans for the story. Time to shift a few things around.


	4. You Will Be Safe In Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I have a Tumblr account now. You can find me at deliriumsdelight7.tumblr.com. Feel free to follow me if you like. I'd love to hear from you!

Belle’s nerves were getting the better of her.

From the moment she woke up this morning her stomach had been fluttering with a mix of excitement and anxiety. That on its own wasn’t too bad. The problem was that her attention span was absolutely shot. She’d tried reading a book, doing some light housework, and even sitting down to rewatch a Netflix series that always calmed her nerves. Within five minutes, she was always back on her feet, chewing her lip and fretting.

She resisted biting her lower lip now with an effort; it was already tender from constantly worrying it in her teeth, and it wouldn’t do to have a sore, chapped mouth for her date tomorrow. So instead, she ran her tongue over her front teeth to appease her oral fixation.

One foot tapped agitatedly on the blue carpet of her bedroom as she stood, hanging on one hip. Her closet doors were thrown wide open, the myriad clothes carefully separated into three categories. There were the outfits she wore to the library: dresses, skirts, and blouses in a variety of colors, all with high necks and flirty, pleated skirts with hemlines that made the head librarian’s lips thin with disapproval. The section of white button-down shirts and black pencil skirts were the designated uniform for her second job at the diner. The third section was the closest thing she had to a casual wardrobe. She couldn’t exactly go out for tea in the collection of flimsy tank tops, T-shirts, and pajama bottoms that she wore around the apartment.

She had nothing to wear on a date. Not surprising - she hadn’t been on one since college, nine years ago. After the disaster of her last relationship, she hadn’t felt up to putting herself back out there. Plus, who had time to date when they had two jobs and an irresponsible roommate to juggle? Which all led back to her current dilemma. She was meeting up with Lachlan in less than twenty-four hours, and her shift at the library started in less than two. There was no time to shop for something new.

Maybe… maybe she could raid her roommate’s wardrobe. Belle knew for a fact that the other woman had a plethora of sexy, eye-grabbing attire. Some of it was absolutely ridiculous - that sequined dress was gaudy and positively blinding in the wrong light - but there had to be something sedate enough for her sensibilities while still slinky enough to make jaws drop. Specifically, a tanned, roughly stubbled jaw with a bright smile that made her heart race.

...And even if she  _ did _ borrow something, she’d never hear the end of it. Not worth the hassle.  _ Besides _ , she thought,  _ I want him to like me for me. That won’t happen if I’m trying to be her.  _ That decided her. She would be herself. If that was enough for him, maybe there would be a second date. If it wasn’t… well, then nothing in her life would change. 

God, she wanted this to go well.

******

Lachlan was going to be  _ sick _ .

There was a great bloody flock of seagulls wreaking havoc in his gut: flapping about, shitting, shrieking, and generally causing his stomach to roil unpleasantly. The lengthening shadows in his apartment hinted at sunset, and he still hadn’t been able to bring himself to eat anything all day. Filled with a fidgety energy, he’d spent most of the day pacing his tiny shoebox of an apartment, nearly wearing a path in the already threadbare brown carpet. If the four yellowing walls with their dingy windows had felt small and enclosed before, now they felt positively claustrophobic.

For the umpteenth time today he found himself in his grimy bathroom, splashing cold water on his face with shaking hands. Cool drops ran down his face in rivulets, dripping from his chin and the tip of his nose. As far as distractions went, it was a poor substitute for beer or whiskey, but the shock of cold against his face brought him back to himself somewhat. Bracing his hands against the cool smoothness of the porcelain sink, he waited for his gasping breaths to slow with shoulders hunched and head bowed.

After several minutes, he felt calm enough to raise his head and stare headlong into the mirror.  _ Fuck, when did I get so sodding  _ **_old_ ** _? _ Sometimes it felt like his glory days had only ended a few years ago, and he half expected to wake up a recovering coke fiend, stuck in a listless marriage with a woman who was sick of his shit and a toddler he felt completely detached from. 

But his features told the story of the intervening years. The harsh bathroom lighting brought every wrinkle, gray hair, and silver speck of stubble into sharp relief. His mouth was pinched, and a small pucker was forming between his frowning eyebrows. What was he playing at, going after a woman in her mid twenties? Next to Belle, he must look positively ancient.

There was nothing to be done for the smile and laugh lines on his face, but… should he start dyeing his hair? Not tonight, obviously - he really couldn’t spare the cash to buy a box - but maybe soon. Pulling his fringe back from his face, he eyed his gray sideburns critically. Maybe if he shaved those off, along with his stubble, it would subtract a few years from his face. But with the way his hands were trembling, he wouldn’t trust them with a plastic butter knife, much less a razor. 

Maybe a drink would steady them.

_ No! No drinking. _ For Christ’s sake, he could go a single day without a drink. In his current fragile mood, one drink could easily turn into a binge. Had he been this bad in California? He didn’t think so, but his last days were a haze of stress and drinking, so he couldn’t be sure. It seemed like his spirit was brittle as candy glass more days than not, lately. Ever since he’d come home.

But he needed to stay sober. His date with Belle was tomorrow, and showing up with a hangover sure as fuck wasn’t a good note to start off on. Of course, being a sweating, shaking, nauseous  _ mess _ was hardly a great look, either.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, making him jump. Fishing it out of his pocket, he checked the number with a sigh.

“Hey, Catherine.” His steps took him back to his living room, and he sunk into the russet colored couch with a quiet groan.

“So, is this going to be a pattern with you?”

_ What? Drinking to excess? Going after women half my age? Running from my problems?  _ “‘Fraid you’re going to have to be more specific, dear,” he replied flippantly.

A ragged sigh came through the phone speaker. If he knew Catherine, she was rubbing the side of her nose with one finger. “Talking to Ari behind my back,” she said slowly, as though talking to a child.

Lachlan shifted in his seat, trying to dislodge the couch spring that was prodding him in the arse. His efforts were rewarded with a different spring digging into a different arse cheek. He scoffed. “I’m not doing it  _ behind your back _ ,” he disagreed. “She emailed me, and I responded. What, am I supposed to run everything by you first? And how did you even know we emailed?”

“She told me this morning.” Lachlan rolled his eyes. Of course she did. His daughter had to be the worst rebellious teenager ever born - sneaking around one moment, confessing everything the next.

Despite his annoyance, he felt a small surge of pride. When he was her age, he was up to no good - skiving off school, sneaking smokes and beers and grass under the bleachers, generally getting into trouble - and he’d certainly never confessed to his parents unless they confronted him directly. Despite his genetics - and probably because of his absence - Arianwen was a good kid.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, one knee jiggling anxiously. “Look, Catherine, I’m… I’m not trying to go behind your back, alright? I just want to get to know my daughter a bit before she’s stuck with me for a week. I’m not some… I dunno, some internet pervert trying to corrupt her. I’m her dad.”

Catherine stayed silent for a long moment, like she always did when she was thinking. He shouldn’t begrudge her time to sort out her thoughts, but waiting for the other shoe to drop always filled him with dread. His knee was nearly vibrating with agitated energy.

“I need to talk to Ari’s therapist,” she finally decided. Christ, again with the therapist. “I want to trust you, Lachlan. I think Ari could be really good for you. But I need to look out for her first, and you didn’t exactly make a great first impression. Or second, for that matter.”

He grimaced. Well, that was… fair. “I know,” he said. “I know I’ve been a selfish prick, and I don’t have much to offer. But… but I want to try.”

“I’ll talk to Ari’s therapist,” Catherine repeated. “And then I’ll think about it. I really don’t like the thought of you putting ideas in her head when I can’t be there to moderate. But… we’ll see.”

That was as good as he was going to get tonight. “Right, well, it was lovely to speak to you as always, Catherine, but I’ve got to go.”

“Lachlan--”

He hung up, letting his head bounce back against the couch cushion. A few stray hairs fell into his eyes, and he brushed them back absently.

_ Fuck, I need a drink. _

******

The key slid smoothly into the lock as Belle closed up the library for the night. It was a short walk from the well-lit sidewalk to her little blue coupe, but still one that made her nervous at night. Her library and her apartment were both in a good neighborhood, but one couldn’t be too cautious when alone at night.

Climbing into the car with a sigh of relief, she started the engine. Tonight was going to be a good night. She had a new book to read, and her roommate was crashing with friends tonight, so she had the apartment to herself without having to worry about being woken up for a ride home. Her shift at the diner wasn’t until one in the afternoon, her date with Lachlan starting two hours before. She was looking forward to a quiet evening in and a full night’s sleep nearly as much as pursuing this flirtation with the charming man.

The drive back to her place was a quick one, and on a nicer day she would have walked it. The clouds overhead had threatened rain, though, and if the deserted streets were any indication, nobody else wanted to be out either. Nobody except for the man standing outside of the cemetery down the street from her apartment, swaying and… wait. Was that  _ Lachlan _ ?

Pulling over with a harsh yank of the steering wheel, Belle climbed out of the car and approached the man cautiously. Sure enough, it was Lachlan, and judging by the way he was hanging onto the cemetery gate for balance, he was three sheets to the wind. 

She hesitated. This was the graveyard where his parents were buried. She didn’t want to interrupt what was no doubt an incredibly personal moment when she was so unsure of her welcome. But she also didn’t want to risk him getting into trouble walking - or worse, driving - home. 

Looking closer, she saw a look of desperate misery on his face: lips curved down, eyebrows drawn, hair falling in his face. That decided her. She couldn’t leave him alone to suffer in such a state. “Lachlan?”

He jumped, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to face her. One hand shot back out to the gate to steady himself. “Belle?” He blinked slowly, like a cat just waking up from a nap, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “What’re ye doin’ here?”

“I was just driving home from work.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward her car. “I saw you, and I had to stop. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course. Just…” He frowned, his gaze straying past the gate to the grassy field dotted with headstones. “Just visitin’ the family. Or tryin’ to.” But he made no move to open the gate and step inside.

Indecision froze Belle. She  _ really _ shouldn’t poke her nose in where it might not be wanted. Her mind wandered to another cemetery in another country, when her mother died. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful to have someone to lean on in her grief, instead of a father drunk to oblivion and a sister determined to lash out at the world? Surely it couldn’t hurt to reach out. If he didn’t want her help, she would back off.

“I could… come with you,” she offered. His eyes were on her again, as though she’d said something unbelievable. “I mean, if you want.”

He stared at her for a long moment, rocking slowly back and forth on his feet. Finally, he shook his head, his face a mask of misery. “I cannae face ‘em yet. No’ after what I did.”

Well,  _ that _ was ominous. What could he have done to fear visiting his parents’ graves? Belle burned with curiosity, but refused to pry. Whatever had happened between him and his family was incredibly personal, and he was in no state to decide what he wanted to confide and what he preferred to keep to himself. 

“Okay, that’s fine,” she soothed. She reached slowly, haltingly for his hand, as though offering her hand to a stray dog to sniff. When her fingers brushed his, he stared blankly at their hands. His heavy-lidded eyes met hers, then went back to their joined hands. “Lachlan? Where do you live? I can take you home.” He shook his head vigorously, trying to pull his hand free. She firmed her grip a bit; if he really wanted, he could pull free, but she didn’t want him leaving if she could help it. “Sweetie, you shouldn’t be out like this. Will you let me help you?”

He stopped pulling away, but shook his head again. “I dinnae want tae go home. It’s…” He faltered, his gaze meandering up to the starless night sky as though the words he wanted floated up there. Clearly they didn’t, because he made a sound of frustration in the back of his throat. “It’s too quiet. Small. I…” His breathing was coming faster, the whites of his eyes showing. He looked like a cornered animal trying to find an escape.

“Okay, okay.” Still holding his hand, she used her free one to stroke his fingers soothingly. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Her words were hardly inspired, but he seemed to take comfort from them, the tension slowly leaving him. His eyes rested on their joined hands, staring as though hypnotized. Or maybe just completely spaced out. She kept stroking his hand in long slow caresses and crooning reassurances to him to give herself time to think.

She had to be very careful how she proceeded here. Lachlan was in no shape to get himself home, and the thought sent him spiraling into a panic. He needed a safe place to sleep it off and recover. His family was gone, and as far as she knew he didn’t have anyone close to him who could take him in. There was nowhere safer for him than her own apartment. 

She didn’t fear for herself. She had plenty of experience taking care of people who had had one drink too many, and Lachlan wasn’t showing any signs of getting belligerent or handsy so far. But they’d been flirting for weeks. She had to be very clear exactly what she was offering so he didn’t misinterpret her intentions.

“Lachlan?” He nodded at her call, his eyes never leaving their hands. “I have a couch at my apartment that’s pretty comfortable. If you don’t want to go home, I can set you up with some pillows and blankets. Would that be okay?”

He nodded. “I s’pose.” 

“Great.” She led him by the hand to her car, opening the passenger door for him and ushering him in. “Watch your--”  _ Thunk. _ “--head,” she finished with a wince. Ouch. She hurried around the car and climbed in. Once she ascertained that he was buckled in, she resumed the short drive home.

Lachlan was thankfully not so far gone that he needed help walking. Getting him to the elevator, down the hall, and to her apartment door was as simple as leading him by the hand; he followed docilely behind her, swaying a bit but otherwise steady on his feet. Unlocking the door, she preceded him into her apartment. A cursory glance around didn’t reveal anything embarrassing lying around. She’d done all the dishes this morning, and her roommate mercifully had not left any of her lacy underthings around after Belle had left for work. 

Lachlan immediately made himself at home, plunking himself down onto the floral printed couch with a rough groan. It must have been more comfortable than he expected, because he squirmed around and settled back, sighing contentedly. 

“Make yourself at home,” Belle told him unnecessarily. “I’ll be right back. I just want to change out of my work clothes.” Normally she liked to take a shower after work, but she didn’t know Lachlan quite well enough to leave him alone in the apartment for so long - especially in his current state.

Standing before her bedroom closet brought a sense of deja vu from this morning. Only now instead of trying to find an outfit to impress the man currently lounging in her living room, she hoped to find something that was comfortable without being frumpy or childish. Preferably something that would hide her nipples, she thought, eyeing her thin tank tops. Her shoulders were a bit stiff, and she wasn’t wearing a bra for another minute if she could help it.

In the end she chose a pair of leggings with purple nebulas and stars, a black tank top with a built in shelf bra, and a royal blue ballet shrug that crisscrossed over her midriff. It would do.

Emerging from her bedroom, she saw that Lachlan had hardly moved except to shuck his denim jacket and drape it over the back of the couch. “I thought you worked at th’ liberry,” he slurred.

Belle’s eye twitched. She  _ hated _ when people pronounced library like that. “What makes you say that?” she asked.

He gestured vaguely around the room. Belle tried to see what he saw. No dirty dishes or food were out. No dirty clothes, or anything particularly embarrassing. She swept every few days, so there were no hair tumbleweeds that inevitably formed when two thick-haired women lived together. The decor was sedately feminine - tasteful and unobjectionable, to Belle’s mind - with earth tones and the occasional floral print. So what was the problem? Was there an odor? 

“What do you mean?” she finally asked.

His brows lowered incredulously. Rather than answer, he allowed gravity to drag him down, sliding sideways along the back of the couch until his head rested on the arm. One hand reached over his head, toward the end table - or more specifically, toward one of the three tall stacks of books piled high on said end table - and poked it. The top of the stack wobbled precariously, but thankfully held.

“I thought you worked at th’ li...brary,” he repeated. “Didnae know you lived in one.”

Now she understood. Books overwhelmed the living room. Mountains of books covered both end tables, framed the TV on either side of the entertainment center, and took up most of the coffee table besides. Belle had long since learned exactly how high she could stack her books before those mountains became cascades, ending up as swamps of books strewn across the floor. Even the kitchen counter was piled high with cookbooks.

“Would you believe me if I said I don’t even notice them most of the time?” she asked rhetorically. She noticed that Lachlan still hadn’t sat back up. He seemed perfectly content to lie on his side. Which would be fine if Belle had any idea how much he’d drunk. “How are you feeling, Lachlan?” she asked.

He grunted and waved a hand noncommittally. 

“Can you give me words, sweetie? I need to know how you’re doing.” 

“Got th’ spins,” he mumbled.

If anything, he sounded drunker than he’d been when she found him outside. His words were slurring, and his accent was even stronger than before. He must still be absorbing alcohol into his bloodstream.  _ Right. Time to go into caretaker mode. Nurse Belle, reporting for duty. _

First order of business, get the bucket. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but cleaning out the bucket would be vastly preferable to scrubbing the carpet. She placed it on the floor near his head before walking to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. When she returned to the couch, Lachlan hadn’t moved. His eyes were open and his breathing was steady. Both good signs.

Placing the glass on the coffee table, Belle knelt in front of Lachlan. “Can you sit up for me, sweetie? I need you to drink some water.” 

“Aye.” After a few initial struggles, he managed to plant his hands on the couch and push himself up. 

Belle handed him the glass. “Small sips,” she advised, gratified when he obeyed without question. Her roommate liked to fight her every step of the way. It was… well, not  _ nice _ , but it was a change of pace to take care of someone who let her take care of him. Which brought her to the next step. “When’s the last time you ate?” she asked.

He frowned into his water, thinking. “Fuck, I dunno. Las’ night, I think.” 

Well, that explained a lot. She rose to her feet, brushing imaginary dirt off her knees. Lachlan’s heavy-lidded eyes followed her, up and up and up, and watched as she went to the kitchen. “I’ll whip us up something to eat. How’s soup and a cheese toastie sound?” Without waiting for an answer, she started preparing the meal: defrosting frozen soup in a pan, and buttering bread for the sandwiches.

“You dinnae have to do that.” 

“I know I don’t.” She bent over to rummage around in the kitchen cabinets, pulling out an enormous skillet and setting it on the stove to heat. “But I haven’t eaten since noon, and that was over nine hours ago, so I’m making dinner anyway. You’re more than welcome to join me.” She gestured toward the kitchen table - the one surface she kept free of books, which was currently strewn with her roommate’s CDs. She stacked them up and pushed them to one side to clear off two spots.

Belle continued to cook, keeping half an eye on Lachlan as he rose slowly to his feet. He wasn’t staggering, which was good, but he wobbled slightly as he picked his way carefully across the room, his half-empty glass carried as gingerly as if it were filled to the brim. Once he was settled into a chair at the table, his attention was immediately focused on the stacked CDs, sorting through them.

“S’m nice choices here.” He fanned the plastic cases on the table in front of him. “Wha’s your favorite?”

“Oh, those?” Belle flipped the sandwiches on the skillet. She projected her voice a bit to be heard over the loud sizzle. “Those aren’t mine, they’re my roommate’s.”

He dropped the CD he was holding like it had burned him. “You have a roommate?” He looked around the kitchen, as though he expected a mysterious woman to materialize behind the rubbish bin or burst out of the fridge. 

“Yeah, but she’s out with friends. She won’t be back until morning.” She carefully stirred the soup, keeping her eyes glued to the half-thawed mixture in the pan. “I can throw one of those on, if you like. I don’t have a stereo system, but my laptop will play it.”

“She willnae mind?” Clearly he wasn’t too worried about the objections of a woman he’d never met, because he held a case out to her.

“Nah.” She popped the CD out of its case and placed it in the disc drive. “She likes to use my books as drink coasters. I can’t tell you how many of my books have brown circle stains on the covers. If she can do that, I can listen to her CDs.” The opening strains of Van Halen’s “Jump” flowed out of the speakers.

Once the food was ready, Belle served it up in heavy brown crock bowls and mismatched, chipped plates. They both dug in, enjoying the music in silence, feet tapping to the beat. Belle was glad to see Lachlan polish off his sandwich within moments. Getting food into him would hopefully keep him from getting drunker, and possibly make tomorrow’s hangover a bit easier on him.

He sipped broth from his spoon and frowned. “Did you make this?” he asked.

“A few weeks ago,” she said, taking a bite of her own. “I make a huge batch and freeze it. Why, is something wrong with it? I can make something else.”

“No!” He shook his hand back and forth in denial - the hand holding his spoon. Droplets of chicken broth dotted the table. “No, just… Where’d you get th’ recipe?”

Belle had to pause to think. She had so many different cookbooks, half the time she had to hunt through them to find a particular recipe. This was the chicken noodle soup with the spinach and chunks of hard-boiled egg in it, which meant it came from the handwritten notebook she’d gotten from…

Oh.

“Your mum gave it to me,” she admitted with a wince. “She had this little notebook full of handwritten recipes. I’ve only had a chance to try a few, but they’ve all been amazing.” She chewed her lower lip pensively. She loved that notebook. Not just because the recipes were all delicious, simple and comforting, but because every time she cooked a recipe from it, she felt closer to Fiona. They may never have spent time outside of the library, but she’d loved keeping the older woman company, and missed her dearly since she passed.

But it wasn’t fair for her to hold onto a keepsake when Fiona’s son had none. Belle got up and rummaged through her cookbooks, giving a triumphant cry when she found the one she was looking for. Returning to her seat, she wordlessly slid the notebook toward Lachlan.

Really, it wasn’t so much a notebook as a small, floral-printed three-ring binder filled with yellowing index cards. Lachlan ran his thumb over the edges of the cards while they ate, flipping through quickly without reading. His smile was wistful and sad, his fingers gentle on the old paper. Once both of their bowls were empty, he slid it back to Belle, who left it where it was. She wasn’t about to argue with a drunk man - even if he did seem to be slowly sobering up. But she certainly didn’t feel right keeping what might be his only reminder of a parent.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, until the last strains of “House of Pain” ended. Belle ejected the CD and put it back in the case, then busied herself clearing the table and doing the dishes. Lachlan seemed content to sit at the table and sip his water.

Once the kitchen was clean, her next task was to set up the couch. There were no extra pillows or blankets, but she could spare one of each from her own bed. Thankfully, Lachlan wasn’t much taller than her; he should be able to sleep on the couch reasonably comfortably.

She left the bucket where it was. Just in case.

Once she was done getting things set up, she turned back to Lachlan. He was sitting exactly where she’d left him, slumped in the wooden chair and staring at her with a puzzled frown. His hair flopped down in his face, and he made no effort to brush it back.

“Lachlan? You’re being awfully quiet. Everything okay?” Belle asked. He didn’t look like he was going to be sick, but her roommate tended to go quiet when she was about to throw up, so she wanted to take no chances.

“Just waitin’ to see if you’re gonna say it,” he mumbled.

“Say what?”

Hunching forward to rest his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. In that moment, he looked so small. “‘You’ve got tae get your shit t’gether, Lachlan.’” The words were muffled behind his palms. 

Slowly, as though approaching a frightened deer, Belle reached her hand out to him. Holding his hand seemed to soothe him earlier; maybe it would help him now. When her fingers brushed some of the hair back from his face, he started. “Come on,” she said, holding her hand out to him. His fingers were warm in hers as she guided him back to the couch. They sank down on the cushions together. Belle kept hold of his hand, stroking a thumb over it slowly. Lachlan’s head fell back against the headrest, his eyes fluttering closed. “Who says that to you?” she finally asked.

“Everyone,” he said, shrugging. “Friends. Ol’ band manager. Ex-wife. Prob’ly jus’ a matter a’ time afore my daughter says it.”

_ Well, that’s… a lot to take in at once. _ She was learning more about Lachlan tonight than she’d learned over several evenings of chatting and flirting. As wonderful as it was to start unravelling the mystery around him, she couldn’t help the guilt gnawing in her belly. It wasn’t fair to learn these things when his tongue was loosened by alcohol. 

“They all say th’ same thing,” he continued without prompting. “Fuck, I want tae get me shit t’gether. Just wish I knew what th’ fuck that  _ means _ .”

This was safer territory that Belle felt she could chime in on without prying. “I don’t think anyone can decide what that means except you. You’re trying to find work, which is a great start. So I guess you just need to think about what you want out of life, and start working toward making it happen.”

Lachlan leaned forward, shifting so he was facing her. His fringe had flopped forward into his face again, obscuring his brown eyes. Raising his free hand, he caressed her jaw gently with his thumb, his calluses rasping pleasantly against her skin. Belle sighed at the contact.

“Lachlan?” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

He chuckled, his eyes flickering down to her lips. “Thinkin’ about what I want in life.” His other hand was still in hers, and he used it to pull her closer. “This okay?”

She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But… “We should stop.”

Lachlan flinched, scrambling back to the far end of the couch. “Shit. Sorry, Belle. I wouldn’t - I didn’t mean--”

“Hey.” Belle considered laying a reassuring hand on his forearm, but thought better of it. “It’s  _ okay _ . Just… not when you’ve been drinking.” Lachlan nodded miserably, refusing to make eye contact. “We can talk about it in the morning, if you want. ‘Til then, why don’t we both try and get some sleep?”

“Right.”

Belle left him on the couch to rest, closing her bedroom door behind her with a click. Leaning against the door, she let out a shaky breath. A not-so-small part of her desperately wanted to go back to the living room and climb Lachlan like a tree. But if pressing him for secrets in this state was a violation, responding to his advances and taking advantage of him physically was doubly so. 

_ God, what am I getting myself into? _ she thought as she climbed into bed. Belle wasn’t naive. She knew that Lachlan was at least a decade older than her - probably more. An older man pursuing a younger woman could potentially raise a lot of yellow flags, and she was keeping an eye out for them. There was no wedding band on his left hand, and no indent or tan line where one may have rested recently. She hadn’t known about his ex-wife until now, but clearly the divorce hadn’t been recent. And while he’d made his interest in her clear from the day they met, he allowed her to set the pace of their flirtation. The way he’d held back from kissing her before she gave enthusiastic consent was a huge turn-on. 

Even his lack of education wasn’t really a concern. Yes, ideally she’d love to be with a partner who loved reading as much as she did. Though to be fair, if she did find such a man they might just get lost in their respective books and forget to actually interact with each other. Besides, there was something terribly attractive about a man who worked with his hands for a living.

Her one reservation was his drinking. Tonight wasn’t the only night he’d drank to excess. He wasn’t like her roommate - going out partying more nights than not, drinking for the sheer joy of being drunk and letting loose. Lachlan seemed to search for solace at the bottom of a bottle. Underneath that devastatingly sexy cocksure grin was a man in pain. A man who - quite possibly - hated himself.

And therein lay her dilemma. If he were drinking for the sake of it, she’d probably be canceling their date tomorrow. But Lachlan didn’t seem to  _ enjoy _ drinking; from what she could tell, he seemed to use booze to numb himself. Maybe he wanted to quit, but just needed help dealing with whatever drove him to the bottle. She couldn’t fight those battles for him, but she could support him if he needed it.

Or maybe she was being overly optimistic. If he didn’t want to quit, there was nothing she could say or do to convince him otherwise. She knew that from experience. And if that was the case, issuing any sort of ultimatum wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

She was getting ahead of herself again. It was just one date. She wasn’t committing to a lifetime here. They were just getting to know each other better outside of her work. She just had to take things one day at a time, and guard her heart until she could make a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I wanted to squeeze the first date into this chapter, but this one was already the longest one I've written so far, and I really want to take my time with that date. Next time, Gadget. Next time!


	5. Falling Through Your Trembling Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! As I mentioned in my previous chapter, I recently signed up for a Tumblr account. You can find me at deliriumsdelight7.tumblr.com. Feel free to follow me or ask me any questions.

The pounding headache behind his eyes greeted Lachlan like an old friend.

Keeping his eyelids closed against the sunlight that assailed them, he took mental stock of himself. His mouth was dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, and tasted like death. His headache, while painful, wasn’t as bad as he’d normally expect, and for once he didn’t feel nauseous. Judging by the crick in his neck, he’d crashed on a couch. If the lack of springs digging into his side was any hint, he definitely wasn’t in his own apartment. He tried to remember where he’d gone last night after finishing off his bottle of whiskey, but the throbbing in his head splintered his thoughts.

Bloody hell. He hadn’t meant to drink last night. He remembered everything before his… what, fifth drink? He remembered ricocheting around his apartment like a deranged pinball, and his call with Catherine. So how had he gotten… wherever the hell he was?

Well, first things first: figure out where he’d slept it off. He risked cracking one eye open, immediately regretting it with a bit back groan. He burrowed his head into his pillow, finally registering that it smelled _good_. Like some sort of flower, and vanilla. He inhaled deeply through his nose.

“Hey. You’re awake,” a familiar accented voice said.

Lachlan’s blood went cold. No. Please no. He prayed, silently begging any deity out there to tell him that he did _not_ get pissed last night and somehow end up in Belle’s apartment. He opened his eyes again and kept them open, hissing at the light. He kept them lowered, unwilling to face her just yet.

“Belle?” He rolled his tongue around his mouth, hoping to get some moisture in there.

“There’s water and pills on the coffee table.” 

He nodded in thanks, wincing when it felt like the movement might liquefy his brain. Sitting up was a lengthy process interspersed with pained winces and groans. Clumsy fingers fumbled with the pills, popping them into his mouth while his free hand rubbed at the sore point where his neck met his skull. He somehow managed to summon enough spit to swallow the pills dry.

“Water, too.” When he waved her off, her voice went firm, but mercifully still quiet. “You need to drink, Lachlan. We both know you’ll feel better if you rehydrate.” 

Damn it, she was right. He knew she was right. And for once, his stomach didn’t feel like it was going to violently reject anything he put in it. Reluctantly, he picked up the glass and took a sip.

“Thank you,” she said. “Once you finish that, I can make something hot to drink.”

“Coffee?” he asked hopefully, finally raising his eyes to look at her.

Oh, what the hell. Even first thing in the morning she looked incredible. Her curls were fluffier than usual, with a slight halo of frizz that was simultaneously endearing and sexy as hell. Her clear skin looked fresh without makeup, and her lips were the loveliest shade of pink he’d ever seen. He wondered what shade they’d take if he kissed her. She was lying sideways on an overstuffed recliner, reading, with her back pillowed against one arm and her legs - god, those _legs!_ \- sprawled across the other. Her legs were lovingly encased in a pair of snug, space-themed leggings. He’d never given much thought to outer space, but now he was seriously considering taking up astronomy. He’d gladly trace new constellations into her skin with his lips and tongue. He took a gulp of water, grimacing at how his mouth still tasted.

He was suddenly very aware that he must look like an utter slob in comparison: hungover, hair uncombed, two days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks, dressed only in - yes, only in a black T-shirt and boxers. Where the hell were his jeans?

“Coffee’s doable. Let me get that going.” Slipping a bookmark into her book, she rose and walked toward the kitchen. Lachlan’s dry mouth went even drier at the sight of her arse in those leggings. Tearing his eyes away, he hunted for his jeans. There they were - draped over the back of the couch, next to his jacket. He scrambled into them hastily, willing his thoughts away from Belle’s lovely backside so he could do the zip.

By the time Belle came back with two mugs - coffee for him, tea for herself judging by the smell - he’d finished his water. She placed his mug on the coffee table before claiming a seat on the couch, leaning against the arm.. “I wasn’t sure how you take it,” she said apologetically. “I’ve got milk and sugar if you need it.”

He waved a hand. “Black’s fine,” he assured her. “Thanks.” He took a ginger sip and made a noise of approval. The coffee was a dark roast, with a bracing bitterness that revived him somewhat before fading into chocolatey undertones. “God, that’s fantastic!”

“I’m glad to hear it.” They sat and sipped their beverages in companionable silence. After a few moments, Belle placed her mug on the coffee table with a sigh. “We should… probably talk about last night, yeah?”

He wanted nothing of the sort. Still, after what a pain in the arse he’d doubtless been, he figured he owed her at least that much. “We should,” he agreed reluctantly.

Belle nodded. She chewed her bottom lip, glanced at him, and quickly stopped. “How much do you remember?” she asked.

He considered his reflection in his coffee, inhaling the roasty, fragrant steam. Now that his head didn’t feel like it was about to give birth to an alien life form, the night was coming back to him. 

"Most of it,” he said finally. “The details are a wee bit blurry, but I think I’ve got the jist of it.”

Her eyes darted around the room, looking anywhere except at him. Finally they settled somewhere past his left ear. “You mentioned something last night that I wanted to talk to you about.” She took a deep, fortifying breath, fidgeting with one of her curls. “Last night you said you wanted to - to get your life together? And you said you didn’t know how.”

He remembered. And if he recalled correctly, he’d also nattered on about his ex-wife and daughter. What a mess. “Aye,” he said tersely.

“Well… I don’t know if you remember, but I told you that getting your life together just means setting a goal for yourself - something that will make your life better.” She hesitated, and he nodded, encouraging her to continue. “I guess I just wanted to tell you that the library has a lot of resources you can use. So if you want to further your education, or learn a trade, or break bad habits, I… _we_ can help.” Her eyes still studiously avoided his.

Very diplomatically put. Somehow Belle managed to pinpoint his fuckups in life - the ones she knew about, anyway - and offer to help him with them, all without judgment. After the shit she put up with last night, she still had the decency to want to help him, without asking for anything in return.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a ragged sigh. He raked his fingers through his hair. “Listen, Belle. I need to apologize for last night. You shouldn’t have--”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

A month ago, Lachlan would have left it at that. He would have accepted her words at face value and thanked his lucky stars he’d gotten off scot free. Any time his problems stacked up, nothing made him happier than to hear someone say “don’t worry about it.” Arrested for possession of marijuana? “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.” Negotiating custody of Arianwen with Catherine? “Don’t worry about it. Just leave us alone.” 

Then he got to see the consequences of not worrying. That insignificant little grass charge ultimately led to his deportation. And his divorce… He’d been so fucking relieved to be absolved of all responsibility for a child he’d never asked for, that he’d never even thought about how she would feel. When Arianwen had taken him to task for his willing abandonment, it had been both painful and humbling.

“No - no, it’s not alright,” he insisted. “Seeing me like that, taking me back to your place, taking care of me - none of that should have happened. You didn’t deserve that.”

Belle shifted closer to him, taking his hand in hers and giving it a reassuring squeeze. The smile she gave him was shy, but sincere. “I didn’t mind, really. I’m used to it.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“My roommate,” she explained. “She has an… active… social life, and doesn’t usually bother setting a designated driver. We have an agreement, of sorts: if she ever needs a ride home, I’ll pick her up, no questions asked. But if she _ever_ drives drunk, or gets in the car with someone who does, then she can fend for herself. Once I get her home, it just makes sense to take care of her.”

Lachlan frowned. “Doesn’t seem like a fair arrangement to me. Sounds like she takes advantage of you.”

She shook her head quickly. “No, no, it’s not like that. I need to make sure that she’s safe. If she drinks and drives, she could hurt herself. Or someone else.”

“But I don’t get why _you_ need to do it,” he insisted. “She could call a taxi, or crash with a friend. Why should you put yourself out for a roommate who doesn’t even seem to respect you?”

He immediately knew that he’d pushed her too far. Her hand fell away from his, and she squirmed in her seat. One shoulder shrugged defensively. “Look, I just don’t like drunk drivers, okay?” she snapped, blinking rapidly. Before he could say or do anything, she stood up with a forced smile, her eyes glassy. “Do you, uh, need a refill?” she asked, gesturing to his half empty coffee cup. 

He blinked at the abrupt change. “Uh… sure.” He watched helplessly as she took their mugs into the kitchen, bustling around and muffling the occasional watery sniffle. Clearly this was a sore topic. Had she lost someone to drunk driving? Whatever the issue was, she clearly didn’t want to talk about it, so he’d let it lie for now. In that moment, Lachlan determined never to tell her the circumstances surrounding his deportation. Back then, he’d never given a thought to the consequences of getting behind the wheel drunk, apart from getting arrested. Now he was seeing, in an indirect way, how his own stupidity could have destroyed someone’s life other than his own. The revelation shamed him.

The clattering of coffee mugs stopped, and Lachlan looked up to see Belle standing at the kitchen sink, facing away from him to look out the window. "I need you to do something for me," she said quietly.

"What?"

"I - look. You drink a lot, sometimes. And that's... well, it is what it is." She folded in on herself a bit - shoulders hunching and head lowering. "I won't ask you to stop. Only you can make that choice. But, if we're going to do this... please don't drive drunk. I don't care if you have to call me at 3AM to come pick you up an hour away, or send you money for a cab, or whatever. Just please, _please_ , don't drive drunk." She whirled around, desperate blue eyes seeking his. "Okay?"

Lachlan swallowed against his thickening throat. How could he say no to such heartbreaking - heartbroken - sincerity? "I promise."

"Thank you," she sighed, the tension flowing out of her shoulders. She turned back around and continued refilling their mugs.

Soon Belle came back with two steaming mugs, reclaiming her seat next to him. Lachlan sipped at the hot coffee, struggling to think of something to say. Should he apologize? Christ, he hadn’t even finished his last apology before he’d fucked up all over again. Maybe he should just change the subject. Or was that just taking the easy way out?

Soon enough, Belle saved him from his dilemma by breaking the silence herself. “So I guess there’s no point in going out for coffee, huh?” she asked with a quirked half-smile.

His heart sank. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that she’d want to cancel their date? Of course she would. Bad enough that he’d forced her to care for him last night, _and_ tried to make a move on her. Shoving his foot in his mouth was just adding insult to injury.

"Right,” he said, clearing the hoarseness from his throat. Standing up, he snatched up his jacket and shoes. “Right. I’ll just get out of your hair, then.”

“No - wait--” Perching at the end of her seat, she reached for his wrist and missed, hooking one finger in the links of his bracelet. Brown eyes met clear blue, and his breath caught in his throat. “I didn’t - I just meant--” She gestured with her mug of tea. “Instead of coffee… breakfast?” She bit her lip, glanced up at him, and released it.

“I… Yeah.” He tried for his well-practiced smirk, the one that reduced Belle to blushing and nibbling that damned lower lip. The absurd grin that spread across his face was a far cry from it, but it couldn’t be too ridiculous if Belle’s answering beam was any hint. “Just let me head home to shower first, eh?”

“Right - of course. There’s a diner down the street - the Golden Spoon. Meet you there in an hour?”

“I’ll be there.”

******

“What do you mean, you _never_ listen to music?”

The day was mildly overcast, the light, fluffy clouds blocking the sun without threatening rain. Taking advantage of the dry weather, she and Lachlan had elected to take a patio table at the diner. He’d changed into a white button-down shirt with a brown paisley pattern, the collar damp from the still-wet hair at his nape. His sunglasses were, thankfully, absent. As for herself, Belle had chosen a high-necked, butter yellow dress with just enough frills and lace to make her feel delicate and feminine. 

They made idle chitchat while waiting for their food to arrive, eyes meeting often but never for too long. She’d given into her sweet tooth and ordered fluffy pancakes served with honey and blueberries, while Lachlan had gone for a full Scottish breakfast, which he’d tucked into with gusto. The food seemed to have revived him; he’d arrived at the diner looking worn around the edges, but now he was downright chatty, his hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke.

Their current topic had arisen when Belle had asked him about his hobbies. His love of music wasn’t surprising - he had mentioned a band manager last night - but she’d underestimated his passion for the topic.

“I mean, it’s not like I don’t like _any_ music,” she protested, spearing one last honey-drenched blueberry on her fork and popping it in her mouth. A bead of the amber liquid dripped onto her lower lip, and her tongue darted out to catch it. If Lachlan’s heated glance was any indication, he’d noticed. “I’ve heard songs on the radio, or from whatever album my roommate plays - over and over and over,” she added as an aside with a roll of her eyes, “but I’ve never paid much attention to genres or bands or song titles. I just sort of think, ‘that’s a nice song,’ and leave it at that.”

Lachlan shook his head. “See, you’ve lost me there. When I hear a song I like, I need to know _everything_ about it.” Tucking a stray hair behind his ear, he leaned forward on his elbows. He continued, ticking each item on his fingers. “Band and song title. Lyrics. Instrumentation. The subtle key and tempo changes that have an emotional effect on the listener. Musical influences that inspired the songwriter. It all adds up into this - this--” He frowned, struggling to find the words. His eyes brightened when he found them. “This distilled emotion, this pure feeling in sound form. Music is the ultimate form of expression, of - of _release_ . It transcends language and cultural barriers. It takes the rhythm and rhyme of poetry and - and adds all new layers of feeling through melody and harmony.” His voice took on a breathless, yearning quality as his eyes stared off into the distance. He was nearly vibrating with enthusiasm, cheeks flushed and eyes glowing with an inner light. “I mean, just look at the audience at any halfway decent concert. The spellbound silence as the audience strains to hear every note of Mozart’s _Requiem_. A stadium full of teeny-boppers shouting their favorite lyrics to the rafters. Even the mosh pit of a metal show, where fans are so caught up in the music that they literally kick the shit out of each other. It’s agony, and ecstasy, all wrapped in one.”

Belle was feeling pretty spellbound, herself. She’d never given much thought to music beyond thoughts such as, _if Lacey plays that damn song one more time, I’m going to rip my hair out._ Lachlan made it sound as entrancing as the climax of a good book, when she was helpless to do anything but keep reading, guzzle the words like a woman dying of thirst, bring the characters to the resolution they so desperately needed, quench that flame in her chest that burned to know what happens next, _now now now_. If listening to music like that was half as good as listening to him talk about it, it was sure to be a singular experience.

If she was infatuated with him before, she was an utter goner now.

Belle leaned forward to lay her hand over his. “So, what--”

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice interrupted. American, going by his accent. Both Belle and Lachlan sat up abruptly, Belle refusing to relinquish her grip on Lachlan’s hand. A man in his mid thirties loomed over them, his dark blond hair trimmed short in a crew cut. She couldn’t see his face, because he was facing Lachlan with his back to her. 

_Rude_ , she thought. 

“Can I help you?” Lachlan asked, sounding as though he wanted to do nothing of the sort. His lips were pulled into a thin line.

“Yeah. At least, I think so. I was just sitting over there, and couldn’t help overhearing you talking about music.” He gestured toward a nearby patio table, where a black-haired woman with a pixie cut made a show of fussing over her baby, studiously ignoring her partner while he interrupted a date. “I just… You’re Lachlan MacAldonich, right? From The Cranks? Bank Street Waltz was my all-time favorite album growing up.”

“Sorry, mate. You’re thinking of someone else.”

Belle still couldn’t see this stranger’s face, but she saw Lachlan’s. His tanned skin had taken on a grayish tinge, and his brows were drawn low. His eyes, so open and warm just moments ago, were now cold and shuttered.

"No way, man. I saw you in concert twice.” He shifted over a bit, blocking Belle’s view of Lachlan. Rolling her eyes, she leaned over further to bring him back into her line of sight. “I got your solo album the day it came out. I even listened to your podcast! I’d recognize your voice anywhere.”

“Lots of Glaswegians in Glasgow,” Lachlan said curtly. “We all sound a bit alike. You’re confused.”

The blond man continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “That second to last podcast put me through the emotional wringer, man.” Lachlan’s hand trembled under hers, and he looked as though he might be sick. “I mean, we all knew what happened to Jed from your Wikipedia article, but to hear it directly from--”

“ _Excuse me_!” Belle snapped. The man turned towards her, blue eyes frowning confusedly as though he’d had no idea she was sitting there. She gave him her coldest, fakest, “I’m being polite because I have to but please fuck off at your earliest convenience” smile. “Hi. Glad you finally noticed the other person at the table.” Beneath her fingers, she felt Lachlan pulling his hand back. She refused to accept that, weaving her fingers through his and giving a few reassuring squeezes. He squeezed back weakly. “Now, you’ve just interrupted what until now was a lovely first date. My friend here has already told you, and I’ll confirm: he is not this Lachland McDonald person. Satisfied? Good,” she continued without waiting for a response. “Now, we’d both really appreciate it if you let us enjoy our date in peace. Think you could do that?”

The man glanced back and forth between the couple, finally nodding and returning to his table. Belle was reasonably certain that his wife’s hissed, “I told you so!” was meant more for them than her husband. After a few moments, they packed their baby back into its pram and left.

Belle let out a shaky breath. “Whew! There goes my one uncomfortable confrontation for the month,” she quipped, wrinkling her nose. “Hopefully Mrs. Campbell doesn’t start microwaving fish in the library again. I won’t have another one of those in me for at least a few weeks. Anyway,” she continued, eager to get back to their conversation, “I was about to ask, since you know so much about music: what should I be listening to?”

He stared at her for a long moment, brow furrowed, as though seeing her for the first time. With a quick toss of his head to dislodge a strand of hair from his eyes, he recovered. “‘Should’ doesn’t really have anything to do with it,” he said. “You can’t really rank music by genre, or the year it was written, or anything like that. Liking classical music isn’t inherently better than liking rock ‘n’ roll, or rap, or even fucking dubstep if that’s what you like.” His grimace told her exactly how he felt about the latter. “At the end of the day…” He paused to finish the dregs of his coffee. “At the end of the day, what really matters is that the music you find grabs your soul and _demands_ your full attention. _That’s_ the music you should be listening to.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever come across anything like that,” Belle admitted.

Lachlan opened his mouth to reply. Before he could say anything, the waitress returned to their table to drop off the check. “No rush on that,” she assured them, placing the slip of paper dead center on the table.

Lachlan reached for the check, but Belle was quicker, snagging the paper out from under him. “My treat,” she said.

“Belle, no,” he protested, trying to snatch it back. “I should really be paying.”

“Why’s that?” She held the slip of paper behind her back with a teasing smirk.

“Because… well…” He gestured vaguely between the two of them.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s 2020, Lachlan. Women can pay for dates. We can even vote and own property!” Her look of mock scandal forced a chuckle from him.

“I can at least pay my half of the bill,” he offered.

Belle wasn’t about to take him up on that. She was employed. He was looking for work. As far as she was concerned, she was happy to pay for dates until he got back on his feet. Not that she’d tell him that. Besides, this was the perfect opportunity to make her intentions clear. “I’m the one who invited you out,” she insisted. “That means I pay. If it makes you feel better, you can pick what we do next time, and I’ll let you pay with only a _little_ complaining.”

The slow curl of his lips resolved into a delighted grin. “Only a little, eh?” he asked. “Suppose I can live with that.”

“Good.” She gave his fingers a squeeze. “Now. There’s a park I’ve been dying to check out since I moved here, and I’ve never been. I’ve got…” She whipped out her phone and checked the time. “...an hour and a half before I’ve got to go. Join me?”

“Absolutely.”

******

“I don’t think I’ve read a fantasy book in my entire life. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever even read for fun.”

This confession came in the wake of him _finally_ asking Belle about her love of books. Fair was fair, after all; she’d endured listening to him rant and rave about music, so the least he could do was return the favor. Besides - while he wasn’t sure the topic itself would interest him, any time he could spend learning about Belle was time well spent.

They’d been walking the concrete pathways of the park for roughly an hour, going slowly in deference to the sky-high heels Belle wore. Not that she seemed to need it. Somehow, impossibly, she walked with more grace on a pair of mini stilts - stilts that made her legs go on for miles under that frilly yellow skirt - than he did in a pair of well-worn sneakers. They’d long since passed through the fragrant botanical gardens, and now strolled through a grove of trees, her heels clicking quietly with each step. Their interlinked hands swung with each step.

Lachlan marvelled at how _good_ this felt. If he excluded the compulsory dinner dates he and Catherine had gone on in a half-hearted effort to save their marriage, he could count the number of dates he’d been on with one hand. He’d never dated in school; Jed had been the popular brother, and Lachlan had always been overshadowed by his older sibling’s overwhelming charisma and presence. He’d lost his virginity in a drunken fumble in an alleyway behind a bar in Manchester at fifteen (thanks to a fake I.D.), and the emotional detachment of that encounter had set the tone for all of his sexual experiences until Catherine. Sex was just the end result of chemicals pumping through his system: the endorphins from a night of performing for an enraptured audience, or the drugs he took to keep up with them. Usually both. 

After Catherine, he’d never bothered with dating. Drunken one night stands were how he preferred to get laid, and if he couldn’t find a woman receptive to his advances, well, his hand suited him just fine. Beau had been the first woman he’d been on an actual date with in a decade, and it had taken months of apparently one-sided flirting to get there. 

This should have been the most boring date he’d ever been on. Objectively, there was nothing all that exciting about eating breakfast and wandering a local park for an hour or so. But the company was fantastic. Belle was funny, passionate, and smart as hell. When he spoke, even about things she had no reason to give a shit about, she really listened as though everything he said mattered. Even in the early days of their relationship, Catherine had teased him about his tendency to ramble about music.

“It’s not for everyone,” she allowed in response to his confession. “Honestly, when I was younger I thought about being an English teacher. I figured if I could share my love of reading with one teen who’d never enjoyed it before, it would be worth teaching a room full of other kids who couldn’t be bothered.”

Struggling to connect with dozens of people in the hopes of reaching just one? That sounded pretty damn thankless to him. To be fair, though, most people never got to experience the screaming cheers of thousands of adoring fans the way he had. Still, who was he to judge? “What changed your mind?” he asked.

“Honestly? I realized that high school English classes suck the love of reading right out of most teens.” She gave a wry smile. “There’s only one thing that kills a love of reading more than being forced to read something you find boring, and that’s having to write an essay about it afterward. Not that I have any better ideas on how to teach sixteen year olds to appreciate Dickens,” she added. 

“Don’t think I ever got to Dickens in school, but I remember wanting to bash my head in reading Shakespeare,” he admitted. 

“Exactly!” Her blue eyes sparkled, and her free hand gestured animatedly with every word. “Literary classics can be absolutely wonderful to read, but forcing kids to read them before they’re ready just makes them resent reading anything at all. I’d much rather encourage a kid to read a well-written graphic novel, or even just superhero comic books if that’s what ignites a fire in them, than have them read Bronte and hate every minute of it. So becoming a librarian just made more sense.” 

“And has it been everything you hoped?” he asked.

To his dismay, her smile faded into a sad, lopsided thing. “For the most part,” she said. “Just, part of the reason I wanted to be a teacher was to have summers off. I had this…” She trailed off and blushed. “Never mind.”

“What?”

She waved him off. “No, it’s silly.”

He jiggled her hand a little in his. “You don’t have to tell me if you want to,” he assured her, “but I promise I won’t laugh.”

She ran her tongue thoughtfully over her lower lip, then nodded. “I had this adventure book growing up,” she said.

“Adventure book?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “I used to keep a journal growing up. They’d always get so beat up in my book bag, so when I was ten, my dad got me this big, leatherbound one. But he didn’t realize that it was actually a sketchbook, so it didn’t have any lines to write on. He was _devastated_.” She giggled, her eyes decades and half a world away. “I didn’t have the heart to ask him to return it, so I started finding pictures that reminded me of my favorite adventures in books and gluing them inside. After a while, instead of fantastical adventures like fighting giant spiders in Mirkwood or finding a cache of tiny dragon eggs on a beachside cliff, I started putting in pictures of things I’d like to actually do.”

Lachlan could picture a young Belle poring over magazines and travel brochures, snipping out her favorite pictures and pasting them into a worn leather scrapbook. Her enthusiasm even after all these years was catching. “Like what?”

She shrugged. “A lot of things. Some of it was things I wanted to learn to do: ride a horse or a motorcycle, learn archery or swordplay, things like that. But most of it was places I wanted to visit, sights I wanted to see. The Louvre in Paris, the Buddhist temples in China, the castles in Scotland… You get the idea.”

So that was why she’d made her way here from Australia. “Did the castles live up to your expectations?” he asked.

“Ah… I wouldn’t know,” she admitted, wilting visibly. “I haven’t had a chance to visit them. Life sort of got in the way.”

Her hand went limp in his, and the silence stretched between them. _Say something, you dolt!_ “...Oh.” _Brilliant contribution, Lachlan_ . _If that doesn’t cheer her up, nothing will._ He released her hand, watching as she sat on a nearby bench and slipped off her shoes, jamming them into her oversized purse.

“I’ve never actually told anyone about that adventure book.” Standing back up, she took his hand again and led him off the path. She seemed to be walking with a purpose, toward no destination Lachlan could see; the only thing in this direction was trees, trees, and more trees. They stopped in front of a large weeping willow. Relinquishing her grip on his hand, she reached out to part the curtain of leaves, slipping through them with one finger crooked, beckoning him to follow.

Lachlan found himself helpless to resist, the leaves rustling over his head and shoulders as he followed. He immediately saw the appeal; the leaves and branches formed a barrier of shade and privacy from any prying eyes. Belle leaned her back up against the trunk, blushing prettily and nibbling that lower lip again. The sun attempted to peek its way through the clouds, throwing dappled shadows over her porcelain skin and burnished curls. His feet carried him to her as if they had a mind of their own.

His heart skipped a beat as her hands slid slowly, deliciously up his chest, over his shoulders and around his neck, playing with the damp hair at his nape. “Did you want to kiss me the other day at the library?” she asked softly.

His hands strayed to her hips as his forehead rested against hers, his fingers teasing her skin through the fabric of her dress. The floral scent of her shampoo mixed with the earthiness of the willow’s bark, and something else - something that was purely Belle. The heady combination made his head spin. “I want to kiss you every day at the library,” he growled. 

Her breath caught in her throat. The black of her pupils eclipsed her sky blue eyes as they flickered down to his lips and back to his own eyes. “”D-did you want to kiss me last night?”

“More than anything.” His fingers played over her skirt, tracing the rough pattern of the lace. Her shiver drew an answering reaction from him. 

Her fingers twisted in his hair, tugging him so close that her lips nearly ghosted over his. Her breath came in desperate pants, and he could taste the warm sweetness of it with every inhale. The urge to cross that last millimeter of distance between them was nearly unbearable. His hands fisted in her skirt - to keep them from shaking or from wandering, he didn’t know and didn’t bloody well care. “Do you want to kiss me now?” she whispered.

“Fuck yes,” he hissed.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Before he could even think of breaching that last distance between them, Belle’s lips were pressed firmly to his. Her lower lip slipped through his as naturally as breathing, and he soothed the poor abused flesh with soft, sipping kisses. Weeks of fantasies couldn’t measure up to the warmth of her skin under her hands, the tickle of her stray hair against his nose, the breathy little sighs that puffed against his cheek. Desperate for more, his arms wrapped around her waist, tugging her flush against him as his tongue laved at the seam of her lips. She parted them with a whimper, her tongue darting out to tangle with his. Christ, she tasted like honey and berries and Belle, and no dessert could ever compare to the sweetness of her mouth. His heart stuttered to a halt before it started hammering in his chest, trying desperately to escape through his ribs and take up permanent residence behind Belle’s. He felt her legs trembling against his, and her hands fluttered down from his hair to rest on his shoulders, gripping as though afraid she’d lose her balance.

He could have kept kissing Belle forever, melting into her with lips and tongues and hands roaming her back restlessly, but he was only human, as his starved lungs reminded him. They broke apart reluctantly, their lips sliding wetly away as they parted. Belle looked absolutely wrecked, he noted smugly. Her flush, usually confined to her cheeks, covered her whole face before disappearing behind the high neck of her canary yellow dress. He hoped to find out exactly how far down that blush went soon. Her hair, previously in an ordered disarray of bronze curls, was deliciously mussed. A few willow leaves peeked out of her coiffure. 

He pried one hand away from her back to pull the stray leaves from her hair with a chuckle. “You know,” he breathed, sucking gently at her lower lip, “if I didn’t know better,” he paid the same attention to her upper lip, swallowing her moan, “I’d think that maybe,” his tongue darted out to tease the sensitive flesh between lip and teeth, “you have a plant fetish.” He pulled back to see her reaction, tickling her nose teasingly with a leaf.

She stared at him, dazed, for a long moment. Then the joke registered, and she slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Very funny,” she groused, unable to contain a reluctant giggle.

“I thought so,” he murmured with a sharp intake of breath through his nose as she captured his lips again. This time he was content to let her take control of the kiss, encouraging her exploration of his mouth with quiet groans and tickling touches along her back. His cock throbbed every time her questing lips and tongue alighted upon a particularly sensitive spot, and he restrained himself from grinding into her with an effort. He was achlingly hard, his skin tingling and desperate for her touch all over, but he wasn’t about to fuck her against a tree in a public park with only a thin layer of leaves for privacy. For now, kissing her was enough.

For now.

A blaring alarm cut through the isolation of their private little sanctuary, startling the two of them apart. Belle snatched her phone from her purse with an aggrieved growl, shutting the alarm off. With a deep, shuddering breath, she faced Lachlan. Her lips were delectably reddened and kiss-swollen, her pretty pink lipstick smeared around her face. Unable to resist, he swiped a thumb over them, reveling in her needy moan.

“That was my alarm,” she explained needlessly. “I’ve got to go to work.”

He frowned, confused. “I thought the library was closed on Sundays.”

“It is,” she agreed, reaching up to comb her nails through his hair, straightening it where it had been tousled. “I work at a diner on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays.” She pulled away from him and he reluctantly let her go, his hands sliding along her waist. Plopping herself on the ground, she shuffled through her bag and produced a pair of sneakers, which she hastily donned. “I’ve got to be there in fifteen minutes, so I need to run.” With a quick rummage through her bag, she produced a slip of paper and a pen. She quickly scrawled something on it, folded it, and tucked it into his hand. Wrapping her free hand around the back of his neck, she yanked him down for another lingering kiss. “I’d love to do this again,” she murmured against his lips. Before he could form a reply, she was bounding through the willow branches, and he was left with tingling lips and a raging hard-on, wondering what the hell had happened.

After a few minutes, the blood started flowing back to the correct head, and he unfolded the slip of paper in his hand. It was her copy of the receipt from their breakfast. She’d written her phone number on the back of it. A ridiculous thrill of exhilaration rushed through him. She wanted to see him again. She gave him her number, and she wanted to see him again.

Once he got his libido under control, he emerged from under the willow tree. Getting back to the path took only a few moments, and from there it was a fifteen minute walk back to his apartment. His mind was lost in a pleasant haze, completely oblivious to the smothered snickers of passersby. 

His mood was so good that even the cramped, yellowed walls of his apartment couldn’t bring him down. He took a quick stop in the toilet to take a leak and wash his hands, and - oh, bugger.

Had he really walked all the way home with pink lipstick smeared across his mouth?

He hastily wiped the makeup off with his fingers and washed his hands. Once he was back in the living room, he eyed his fridge for a moment, before booting up his computer. A quick check of his email showed a new message from Arianwen.

_Hi Lachlan,_

_I hope I didn’t get you in trouble with my mom by telling her that I emailed you. I know she can be kind of fussy sometimes, but I don’t really like keeping things secret from her._

_Mom says she’s going to buy our plane tickets and hotel room later this week. Once I have the dates, I’ll let you know. I’m really excited to see your hometown. What sort of sights do you think we’ll see?_

_If you still want to do video chats, the best time for me would be 10 in the morning until noon on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That would be 6-8 at night where you are. Is that okay? I have Tuesdays and Thursdays off at the coffee shop. But if that doesn’t work for you, I can figure something else out._

_Love,_

_Arianwen_

Still so insecure. He shouldn’t be surprised. Arianwen seemed to second guess her every move. Something like that didn’t resolve itself overnight. He wondered if that had something to do with that therapist Catherine was always harping on about.

_Dear Arianwen,_

_Don’t worry about me and Catherine. I can’t say I always agree with her, but at the end of the day I’m not the one who has to live with her. Catherine says you’re a good kid, and from what I can see, she’s got the right of it. Do what’s best for you._

_End of August, right? That should give me some time to come up with something fun to do. There are the typical tourist spots - you know, lochs and castles and such. There’s an art museum in Glasgow that I’ve never been to, if that interests you. Other than that… let me know what interests you, and I’ll see what I can do._

_Tuesday and Thursday evenings work fine for me, for now. I’m still looking for work, so once I get a job my schedule might change. Should we plan for this Tuesday, then, or would you prefer to wait?_

_I can’t wait to hear from you._

_Love,_

_Lachlan_

Once the email was sent, Lachlan shut the computer down. His leg jiggled restlessly in his computer chair. He still had the rest of the day to himself, and nothing to fill his time with. His heart sped up as the dingy walls loomed around him. Before he even registered what he was doing, his feet carried him to the fridge. He yanked the door open with more force than necessary, staring at the contents. It was completely barren, apart from a six pack of beer and a few condiments. He snagged a brown glass bottle, rummaging around a nearby drawer for his bottle opener. Where the fuck was it?

It didn’t matter; he knew how to open a bottle using the back of his computer chair. Hell, in his younger days he used to open them with his teeth. Those days were past him, now. He had reasonably good teeth, and was at an age where he wanted to keep them that way. He doubted Belle would be all that impressed if his teeth started falling out of his head.

Belle. She’d taken care of him last night without judging him or asking for a single thing in return. And somehow, miraculously, she was still interested in him. Wasn’t she worth getting his drinking under control for?

And then there was Arianwen. His drinking had done nothing but hurt her. The scar on her hand from where he’d accidentally slammed it in a door proved that. Didn’t she deserve a father who could go one damn night without a drink?

One night. He could do that. It would save him a few pounds, anyway. Just because he hadn’t gone a single night without at least a drink or two since returning to Scotland, didn’t mean that he couldn’t do it. All he had to do was find something to keep his mind off any unpleasant topics. Movies wouldn’t cut it; watching TV was too passive to properly distract him. No, what he needed was an outlet. 

His eyes darted around the apartment, alighting on his guitar case. He’d strummed his guitar a few times since his trip into L.A. with Arianwen, but had hardly touched it since. But something about Belle left him feeling inspired for the first time since his solo album.

Undoing the latches on the case, Lachlan opened it up and picked up his guitar by the neck. A quick poke to the Humidipak told him that it would need to be replaced soonish. While the weather was much wetter here than in California, it still wasn’t quite as humid as an acoustic guitar needed. Settling into his lumpy couch, he tuned the strings, twisting the knobs until he was satisfied that he was playing in key. 

A melody was already falling into place in his head. A major key - A or C, probably - to best showcase those smiles that lit up her whole face. Something with more picking than strumming, something delicate, like those lacy little skirts she wore. But there had to be inner strength there, too - the strength to care for others, to care _about_ others so deeply, and to stand up for a man too haunted by his demons to speak up for himself. A melody simple enough to get its measure in moments, but with hidden complexity that kept you coming back day after day while you tried to puzzle out its depths.

Lachlan took a deep breath. And he started to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on adding any other OUaT characters in this story, but I accidentally started describing David and figured I'd run with it. I doubt I'll use any other characters (except the roommate whose identity you'd already guessed) as more than cameo appearances.


	6. She's Got a Smile

Belle couldn’t stop grinning like a loon. It was starting to make her coworkers nervous.

It had been one day, two hours, and… she checked the analog clock on the wall… thirty seven minutes since Belle had left Lachlan in a state under the willow tree, feeling rather wound up herself. When she’d arrived at Nanna’s Diner, her coworker Rosey had homed right in on her mussed hair and smeared lipstick, demanding details. Her shift had been a veritable war zone - dodging fellow waitresses and their barrage of questions while she dodged children whose parents let them run underfoot. The quiet of the library was a welcome change. 

Without the hustle and bustle of the diner keeping her on her toes, she found her thoughts straying back to Lachlan - his smile, his expressive eyes, the way the sunlight played in the silver in his hair, and far too often on that tempting bulge under the placket of his jeans that had pressed so perfectly against her - when she should really be focusing on work. After the fourth time she completely missed a customer’s greeting, she decided to go find something less customer-facing to do. Which was how she found herself in the periodical room, humming absently while she straightened out the absolute mess a group of teenagers had left behind. This task was loathed by every last librarian here not only because it was painfully tedious, but because the room had been skipped over when the building had been renovated a decade ago. The walls were dingy, the fluorescent lights had a tendency to start flickering randomly, and the carpet somehow still carried the stench of thirty year old cigarette smoke. Usually that particular chore was left to Mrs. Campbell, who handled it with a surfeit of grumbling and stomping.

Belle completed her task mostly on auto-pilot, humming random snatches of songs she couldn’t name: smoothing the dog-ears and various other creases the teens had left in the magazines, putting them in some semblance of order so they could be put away quickly, and wiping down the tables to get rid of the sticky residue left behind by the snacks they must have snuck in. Just as she was loading the magazines onto the cart, the rhythmic clunking of clogs on tile alerted her to Mrs. Campbell’s approach. The older woman walked through the door, stopping short when she saw Belle.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Campbell,” Belle greeted cheerfully. It would do nothing to ingratiate her to the head librarian, but manners never hurt.

Mrs. Campbell’s piercing gaze moved from the clean table, to the full cart, to Belle, as though trying to puzzle out how the three were connected. “You… took care of the periodicals.”

Belle nodded, straightening a crooked stack of magazines. “I needed something to do, and I know teens usually leave quite a mess. Besides,” she added, “usually you’re the one stuck doing it. I can suck it up and do it here and there.”

“Oh. Thank you.” She turned to leave, hesitated, and turned back. Her steel gray brows lowered, but her mouth wasn’t pressed in a puckered line, so she didn’t seem too upset. “How was your weekend?” she asked.

Trying not to let her surprise show, Belle gave her boss a tentative smile. Mrs. Campbell  _ never _ made small talk with her employees. “It was really lovely. Thank you for asking. What about yours?”

“Good. It was good.” Brushing some imaginary lint off her skirt, she turned toward the door. “Well. Don’t let me keep you.” And she left without another word.

_ Well, that was… different. _ With a shrug, Belle wheeled the cart back to the stacks and started sliding the magazines back where they belonged. A buzzing at her thigh alerted her to a text coming in. Pulling her phone from her pocket - and oh, didn’t she just wish all skirts came with pockets - she saw a message from an unknown number.

_ Hey, it’s Lachlan. I have news. Can I see you at work tonight? _

Biting back a pleased giggle, she quickly added his number to her phone and responded.

_ I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. Usual time? _

_ I’ll be there.  _

The next few hours went by in a blur. If pressed, she wouldn’t be able to recall a single detail of the afternoon. Clearly the magazines had gotten put away somehow, and her lunch had been eaten, but she couldn’t remember doing either of those things. This was almost as bad as her senior year in undergrad, when she’d tried desperately to finish a book before she had to go to class. It had been the last in an eight-part fantasy romance, and she’d been so sure she could finish it before class started. She’d been wrong, and had to endure a two hour long class desperate to finish the climax that culminated in magic, intrigue, and the gods themselves deciding the fates of the heroes and heroines (plus, reunion sex. She  _ loved _ reunion sex in books). She’d absorbed absolutely nothing from that class, and when she got home she’d sprinted to her room, thrown herself into her bed, and refused to move until she’d finished the book with a contented sigh. And then started the series over from the start.

This wasn’t  _ quite _ as bad as that. She hadn’t bumped into anyone yet, and wasn’t snapping at people when they interrupted her daydreaming. She was impatient to see Lachlan again, but it wasn’t an agitated impatience. It was… anticipation. Excitement. When was the last time she’d had something more than a quiet night and a new book to look forward to? She hadn’t been  _ excited _ about anything since she’d first moved here, thrilling at the thoughts of sights to be seen and adventures to be had.

4PM saw Belle back in her usual spot behind the circulation desk, waiting for Lachlan. She didn’t have to wait long; within a few minutes he was walking through the door and making his way to her, with that smile that always left her feeling breathless and giddy.

“Belle,” he murmured, holding out his hands over the desk. 

She placed hers in his, giving his fingers a squeeze that he returned. “Lachlan,” she breathed. The warmth of his hands flowed through her arms, over her shoulders, and up her neck to settle in her cheeks. 

She struggled to think of something to say. Was it too soon to say that she’d missed him? Would he want to hear that? For that matter, was it too soon for her to  _ be _ missing him? They’d known each other for a few weeks, and been on one date. Should she pull back a bit before she ruined everything? Or would that ruin everything?

Finally, she settled on a safer topic. “So you said you have news. What’s up?”

He let go of her hands and clapped his, rubbing them together in excitement. “I got a call this morning - from the construction company I interviewed at last week, and…” He trailed off, eyes dancing with mischief.

Belle bounced eagerly on her toes. “And?  _ And _ ?”

“And…”. He paused again, smirking when she made a frustrated noise. “You’re looking at the newest hire at the Rusty Nails Construction Company.”

With a squeal, she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him as close as she could over the desk. The edge dug uncomfortably into her stomach. “Lachlan, that’s amazing! I knew someone would snatch you up before you knew it!” She pulled back, cupping his face in her hands, enjoying the rough scrape of stubble against her palms, the contrasting warmth of his cheeks and coolness of his hair. Before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to his in a chaste kiss. His lips plucked gently at hers, but neither made any move to deepen it. Just now, this was enough. This was perfect.

After a few moments, she pulled away with a reluctant sigh, fingers fussing with the collar of his denim jacket as an excuse to keep touching him. “So what did you say the name of the company was?”

“The Rusty Nails Construction company.” Grinning, he added, “And before you ask, yes, I’m up to date on my tetanus shots.”

“Ugh.” She wrinkled her nose at the joke, letting her hands drop down to her sides. “Seriously, though, I’m so happy for you. I know you were starting to get worried.”

“Just a bit, yeah.” His left hand strayed to his right wrist, fiddling with the bracelet there. “My, ah, my daughter is supposed to visit me. At the end of summer. But only if I have a job - you know, get my shit together.”

Belle smiled, secretly pleased at his candor. It was one thing to hear about his daughter from a drunken confession. It was another to have him confide in her, completely sober, in the light of day, encouraging her to learn more about him. “Where does she live now?”

“In California - just outside L.A.,” he replied, watching her cautiously. “She lives with her mother, my ex-wife. Catherine.”

“And what’s your daughter’s name?”

“Arianwen.” A fond smile curled his lips as he continued. “She’s fourteen, and she’s such a good kid. Top of her class. And she plays guitar!”

He sounded so pleased at that last bit of information that she guessed: “Like you?”

He nodded a bit sheepishly. “Not as much as I used to, but yeah. I’ve been picking it up here and there.” His cheeks incongruously reddened at that admission. Raking his hand through his hair, he sighed raggedly. “Look, Belle, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I had a great time on our date yesterday.” 

Belle nodded warily. “Okay…” Her stomach lurched, and her heart raced. Had she misread things? She’d thought he was just as into her as she was infatuated with him. But maybe she was mistaken.

“I found work, but I won’t get paid until next Friday.” He shrugged helplessly, letting his lands fall and slap against his denim clad thighs. “I want to take you out again. Or, for the first time, I guess, since you took me out last time. I just… I just don’t have the money yet.”

Relief hit Belle like a tidal wave, weakening her limbs and forcing the breath from her lungs in a rush. “Don’t  _ scare _ me like that!” She swatted at him with one hand, deliberately falling short and missing. “I thought you were going to say you didn’t want to go out with me again.”

“That’s definitely not something you need to worry about,” he assured her. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m, er, I’m kind of crazy about you.” His admission came with a shy grin while his hand fluffed the hair at the back of his head.

Belle tried - and failed - to suppress a giddy giggle, one hand fluttering up to play with a curl by her ear, twirling it slowly around one finger. “Well that’s good. But I have no intention of waiting two weeks for our next date. Can’t we do something sooner?” Inspiration struck. “You could come to my place, and I could cook us dinner.”

“I couldn’t put you out again after last Saturday,” he protested. “Besides,” he added smugly, “you promised I could pick what I do on our second date, and you wouldn’t complain. I’m holding you to that.”

“I said I could complain a little. I would  _ never _ make a deal that keeps me from complaining,” she argued with a teasing smile. So. He definitely had some old fashioned values. That was fine, as long as they didn’t get in the way of her independence. Or her next date with this impossible man. “Also, I said you could pick the activity the next time we  _ go out _ . I’m proposing that we stay in. Completely different.”

“Aye, I suppose it is,” he conceded. “Alright. Dinner it is. Saturday again? Say, seven o’clock?”

“Sounds perfect. We can have dinner and watch a movie. Or if you want to bring some CDs, you could introduce me to some music.” She made a very thorough study of her fingernails, examining her raspberry-colored polish for chips that weren’t there. Butterflies danced in her stomach. “You could pack them in an overnight bag. If you want.” 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “That… I could do that, yeah.” 

As they continued to chat, Belle’s mind was already planning out the rest of her week to get ready for their date: what to make for dinner, when to change her sheets, where to pick up condoms, and more. Saturday night had to be perfect.

Now if she could just figure out how to make sure her roommate left her alone on Saturday.

******

Lachlan was a mess. He was caked in a layer of sweat, dust, and general grime. His feet ached, he likely had a bruise or two forming, and he was positive some of his muscles would protest his rough treatment of them in the morning. Also, he was pretty sure he had a bad case of helmet hair.

It was the best he’d felt since coming back to Scotland. Well. Except maybe for an interlude under a certain willow tree.

God, he’d  _ missed _ working outdoors! Getting his hands dirty, working up a sweat, soaking in the… well, not the sun. Scotland’s weather was overcast more often than not, and the sky had spit rain on him for most of the day. But doing something productive actually felt good for once, after weeks of feeling confined to his apartment. And the blokes he worked with seemed decent enough, showing him the ropes and including him in their wisecracks. It wasn’t his dream job, but it paid the bills and kept him busy. 

A quick glance at his phone showed him that it was half past five. Perfect - he had just enough time for a quick shower before jumping on a video call with Arianwen. 

Twenty five minutes later he was booting up his computer, checking to make sure that his A/V equipment was hooked up, and signing into his account. He wasn’t left waiting long; within thirty seconds his speaker blooped, and Arianwen’s face popped up on his screen. She looked adorably disheveled: still in her PJs, black hair rumpled with sleep, rubbing her face tiredly. Lachlan smothered a chuckle.

“Hey Arianwen, how are you?”

“Mmph… not a morning person,” she groaned.

“Isn’t it 10AM there?” he asked.

“Yeah, and I usually sleep ‘til eleven in the summer.” A long stretch and yawn seemed to wake her up somewhat. Her next words were garbled around a yawn. “So how is Scotland? Are you settling in okay?”

Two days ago, Lachlan wouldn’t have known how to answer that question. He wasn’t about to burden his daughter with the difficulties he’d faced since getting here. She didn’t need to hear about her dad getting into barfights and drinking himself stupid more nights than not.

And she definitely didn’t need to know about the new… thing… whatever it was… he had going on with the pretty, blue-eyed librarian with the contagious smile.

But now he had news he could share. “I got a job at a construction company,” he said proudly. “Just got home from my first day less than an hour ago.”

“That’s great!” 

Her heartfelt smile left warmth suffusing through his chest. Was that really all it took to connect with Arianwen - to take a simple, necessary step toward getting his shit together? And would subsequent steps have the same effect? He was suddenly possessed by a yearning for his daughter to be as proud of him as he was of her. Which was probably why he blurted out his next sentence without thinking.

“And I’m thinking of getting my high school equivalency.”

If she was happy for him before, now she was downright giddy. “Really? That would be so cool! What kind of textbooks do you need? What are your good subjects and your bad subjects? I’m in all advanced classes, so I could be your study buddy if you want.”

Lachlan held his hands up in a halting gesture with a hearty laugh. “Easy there, sweetheart. I haven’t even started looking into it yet. I just thought of it because I heard about it from a librarian.”

“Oh. Well… if you want any help, I take really good notes.” 

They continued chatting for another forty-five minutes before Arianwen begged off with the excuse that she was meeting some friends for lunch. Perfect timing - Lachlan hadn’t had a drink since the night before, and he was starting to get the shakes. He really didn’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes if he drank in front of her. Or hear the lecture he was sure to get from Catherine, for that matter. 

The first swallow of whiskey burned on its way down, but the relief to his trembling hands was immediate. After a few more gulps, he slowed down. He wasn’t looking to get sloppy drunk tonight; he had work in the morning, and the last thing he needed was to show up to work hungover while he was still learning the ropes. He just needed enough to ease the shakes, slow his thoughts, and make the sickly yellow walls of his flat more bearable.

Once he had a nice buzz going, he started sifting through his CD collection. All of his absolute favorite albums were on vinyl, but Belle didn’t have a record player, and he wasn’t about to lug his all the way to her flat, so CDs would do. He grabbed a good handful of discs he thought she might enjoy: some with classical instrumentation, others with songs that told a compelling story, and a couple with some love ballads. She seemed like the romantic type.

After a few moments’ debate, he included The Cranks’ self-titled debut album. It wasn’t the hit that Bank Street Waltz was, but his and Jed’s best days in Manchester were spent recording that album. He was apprehensive about sharing this part of his life with Belle - questions about The Cranks could lead to questions about Jed, and he was in no way prepared for that - but his days performing had been the happiest of his life. He wanted her to see a glimpse of that.

And hell - their next date was four days away. If he decided he wasn’t ready for that, he had plenty of time to choose to take the coward’s way out.

*****

_ Don’t be a coward, Belle. Just talk to her already. _

Belle stood outside her roommate’s door, first poised to knock. She’d been putting off this confrontation all week, and it couldn’t be delayed any longer. Lachlan was coming over in two days, and she didn’t want Lacey anywhere near him when he did.

Screwing up her courage, she rapped on the door with one knuckle. After a few moments, the door swung open.

“Yeah?” her twin asked, running a hair straightening wand through her locks. When Belle didn’t immediately answer, she rolled her eyes and twirled her free hand in a “get on with it” gesture. “Come on, Belle, I’m going out with Brian, Taylor and Brad tonight, so out with it already.”

“I need you out of the apartment Saturday night,” she blurted, then winced. She’d wanted to use a  _ bit _ more tact than that. 

Lacey stared at her silently, calculatingly. Belle  _ hated _ being under her sister’s unrelenting gaze; she always felt like an open book. She reached a hand over her shoulder for a curl, running her fingers repeatedly through the strand.

“Why?” Lacey finally asked. “Got a hot date?”

“That’s none of your business.” Belle fixed Lacey with her iciest glare, which had the same effect it usually did - which was to say, none at all.

“You do!” Lacey crowed. “You’ve got a date, and you’re bringing him back here to do the horizontal mambo.” Finishing up her hair quickly, she unplugged her hair straightener and set it on her vanity. “So what’s he like? Is he hot? Have you guys banged yet? Is it serious?”

“I’m not doing this with you again, Lacey,” Belle snapped. Her sister scowled back. The two sisters stared at each other for a few moments in a battle of wills. Belle broke first, glancing down at her hands where the curl she’d been fiddling with was reduced to a mass of frizz. “Here’s all you need to know: I need the apartment to myself for the night. What’s it going to take to get you to leave me alone for a night?”

Lacey looked at her consideringly, her tongue tucked between her front teeth and her upper lip. “Fifty quid, and I get to borrow those black pumps for the night,” she decided.

“You already owe me a ton of money!” 

“Yeah, well, I’m not asking for a loan this time. You  _ give _ me fifty pounds, and let me borrow the shoes, or maybe I’ll be feeling a little under the weather and decide to stay in on Saturday. Take it or leave it.”

Drat. That was most of her fun money for the month. She could dip into her savings in the shoebox under her bed, but she hated the idea of depleting her rainy day fund. She also wanted to wear those pumps on Saturday, but she knew when to pick her battles.

“Fine. Fifty pounds and the shoes, and you make yourself scarce. Deal?”

“Deal. Are we done here?”

“God, yes.”

“Good.” And with that, Lacey slammed the door in Belle’s face.

Belle let out the breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding, rubbing at her brow where a stress headache was starting to form. She’d surmounted the biggest obstacle to getting alone time with Lachlan this weekend. Now she just had to make sure the apartment was ready. Everything had to be perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time. The next few should be longer.


	7. The One Thing That We Can Hold Dear Is This Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really called to attention the fact that I seem to use the exact same sentence structure every time I describe an action. Something for me to work on.

It was nearly seven, and Belle was as ready as she was ever going to be.

The entire morning had been spent cooking, cleaning up the mess she made in the kitchen as she went. The last of the prep work was done just in time for her to shower, get ready for work, and run out the door. The library was hopping for her entire shift, keeping her running around all day. By the time she’d gotten home, she was almost grateful to Lacey for removing the temptation of wearing her sexiest but most uncomfortable heels tonight. Instead, she opted for a pair of low black heels to go with her claret-colored A-line dress. In deference to what she hoped would be a very  _ active _ night with Lachlan, she eschewed her usual pink lipstick in favor of a subtle lip tint - and took a moment to move all of her sister’s frilly lingerie from the shower curtain rod to her bedroom. Trust Lacey to choose today of all days to hand wash her delicates. Belle tried not to think too hard about her own comparatively plain - sensible, in her opinion - underthings.

With twenty minutes to spare, Belle started the final touches on dinner. Most of the cooking itself was done, so all that was left was assembly and popping a few things in the oven to heat. She’d decided, since she wasn’t sure just what Lachlan liked, to make a variety of finger foods that they could pick at. She’d considered pulling a recipe from Fiona’s cookbook, but ultimately decided against it. While she wanted to impress him tonight, cooking one of his mother’s dishes when she was actively hoping to seduce him seemed inappropriate.

Not for the first time, she worried that she had been a bit too forward when she’d suggested that he stay the night. It was only their second date, after all. With all of her past boyfriends, she’d hemmed and hawed for months before taking them to bed, wanting to be  _ absolutely sure _ before she took such a big step. But with Lachlan, it was different. Simpler. Spending time with him, getting to know him better, gave her something to look forward to for the first time in years. His visits to the library left her nearly dancing with anticipation, and her nights were spent going over everything she’d learned about him over and over in her head. She found him devastatingly, effortlessly sexy, what with his mischievous smirks and those long, soft-looking locks her fingers itched to dive into. Taking this step didn’t feel like a decision to be agonized over. It just felt natural, but still gave her a thrill that shook her down to her toes.

A knock sounded at the door, breaking her from her ruminations. Quickly rinsing her hands and wiping them on a dishtowel, she zipped over to answer the door. Lachlan stood on the other side, hands in his jean pockets, top two buttons of his white shirt undone. With a flutter of delight, Belle noticed a worn, gray duffel bag lying innocuously behind his feet.

“Belle.” His eyes slid slowly down her form and back up, drinking her in. She waited with a blush, letting him look his fill. “You look stunning.”

“So do you. I love that shirt on you.” The crisp white button-down looked just as good on him now as it had the first time they’d spoken, the third time he’d come to her library. She wondered if he’d chosen the shirt for that reason. Belatedly realizing that she was standing in the doorway gaping at him, she stepped to the side with a sweeping gesture. “Oh. Right. Come on in.” 

“Thanks.” Stepping inside, he tucked his bag into an unobtrusive corner, as though trying not to call attention to it. With a toss of his head he turned to face her, scrubbing his palms on his jeans. Then he waited.

For a cue from her, she realized with a start. Even when she’d strongly hinted that sex was all but a sure thing tonight, he still waited for her signal. He didn’t seem particularly shy or nervous; his gaze met hers squarely, lips quirked up on one side, shoulders relaxed. Which meant that this sweet man wanted to make sure he was comfortable before making a move.

That was easily solved. It took only three steps to cross the distance between them and loop her arms around his neck, fingers twining with the soft ends of his hair. Lachlan’s hands came to rest on her waist like they belonged there, their heat scorching through the thin material of her dress. His breath fanned over her lips, the smell of mint slightly overpowering his spicy aftershave. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He lowered his head to bump her forehead with his.

“We have a problem.” When he pulled back a bit, a frown creasing his brows, she tightened her grip on his neck, holding him in place, and hastened to continue. “You’ve been in my apartment for a whole thirty seconds, and you haven’t kissed me yet. I’m starting to feel neglected.”

“Mm, that is a problem,” he agreed. “What do you reckon we should do about that?” He made no move to close the distance.

“Oh, get down here already,” she demanded in a harsh whisper, giving his hair a firm yank to bring him closer. His lips collided with hers, and the impossible man was smirking against her mouth. She plucked gently yet insistently at his mouth with her own, unravelling his grin with lips and tongue until he softened and opened for her. He deepened the kiss with a harsh intake of breath through his nose, his fingers biting into her waist briefly before relaxing and rubbing soothing circles in her skin. Belle hummed contentedly as she slowed the kiss, perfectly satisfied to bank the glowing embers between them without letting them ignite into a blaze. There would be time for that later.

Gradually they shallowed the kiss, nibbling at each other’s oversensitive lips before reluctantly pulling apart. “Better?” Lachlan breathed, eyes flickering down to her mouth and back like he wanted nothing more than to dive back in and never come out.

“Mmm, much.” Before she could say anything else, the stove beeped. “That’s the oven,” she explained unnecessarily. “I need to finish up dinner. While I do that, did you want to put on some music?”

“Sure.” 

Belle left him to rummage through his bag while she busied herself in the kitchen: placing appetizers on baking sheets and popping them in the oven, pulling plastic containers of food out of the fridge to be plated, and pouring non-alcoholic sparkling cider into her only pair of matching glasses.

“Alright, I wasn’t sure what sort of music you might like, so I brought a handful.”

Licking a bit of spinach artichoke dip from her finger, Belle turned, and blinked at the selection of CDs he’d fanned out on the kitchen table. “Wh… Lachlan, there must be twenty CDs there!”

“There’s a few, aye,” he allowed with a careless shrug. “I’ve got a lot more at home.”

“This is a  _ few _ ? Just how many do you have?”

“More than I care to count.” He gestured to her living room with a sly smile. “Not so many that I can’t see a single horizontal surface in my flat, though.”

Belle resisted the urge to make a face at him, instead coming to stand beside him. “Point taken. Now tell me what you’ve brought, you ridiculous man, and we can choose.” She gave him a playful bump with her hip to take the bite out of her words.

Before she could pull away, his arm wrapped around her waist, hauling her back against his side with a chuckle. His fingers drew feather-light, abstract patterns on her hip that entirely distracted her from listening to a word he said. Not that she was likely to know a single band he listed.

“...and last but hopefully not least, the debut album from The Cranks,” he finished.

Belle pulled away, eyes shining with excitement. “That’s your band, right? The Cranks?”

“Aye.” His lips were pressed in a thin line, and his brown eyes looked at her warily - like a dog expecting to get kicked. 

“Can we start with that one? I’ve been dying to learn more about your band all week.”

“Sure.” He gathered up the remaining CD cases and stacked them on a far corner of the table, then brought the remaining case to the laptop. “You know, I don’t let it get out much that I was in a band, but every time someone finds out, they have this inane urge to - to  _ Google  _ me, instead of just asking me about it. I’m a little surprised you didn’t.”

“Ugh.” Belle’s nose scrunched in distaste as she returned to the kitchen, plating various nibbles. “Sorry, but I just think that’s so invasive. Just because someone becomes a public figure, it doesn’t mean that they lose the right to privacy. Or it shouldn’t, anyway.” The oven timer went off, and she hurried to pull the baking sheets out and rest them on the stovetop. “I don’t care if someone has a sex tape, or an embarassing drunk video, or if their most embarrassing online presence is a video of them reading the school cafeteria menu on the news when they were eight - don’t ask,” she warned, quickly transferring piping hot food onto more plates. “Nobody deserves to have their most private moments put online. Not unless they’re, I don’t know, a sex offender, or they killed somebody, or something.”

The sound of plastic clattering to the floor made her jump. She turned just in time to see Lachlan picking the CD case off the floor. A man’s voice came from her laptop’s speakers, counting off a beat before a guitar opened the first song on the album.

Before she could say anything, Lachlan waved a dismissive hand. “Just had a clumsy moment.” Placing the CD case on top of the stack, he scrubbed his palms against the legs of his jeans. “Anyway - you look like you’ve got your hands full. What can I help with?” He shrugged helplessly. “I’m pure shite in the kitchen, but if you need menial labor done, I’m your man.”

******

Lachlan leaned back in his chair, sighing contentedly. Belle was an incredible cook, and she’d outdone herself preparing a wide array of finger foods to pick and choose from: a charcuterie board; chicken kebabs drizzled with a spicy peanut sauce; a spinach artichoke dip and a hot crab dip served with carrots, celery and crostini for dipping; goat cheese croquettes; and finger-sized cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The only thing he didn’t try was the stuffed mushrooms; he loathed the texture of fungus, raw or cooked (“More for me,” Belle had quipped, spearing another on her fork). It was the best meal he’d had since coming back to Scotland. Hell, it was the best meal he’d had in years. Between the food and the company, if she sent him home now he’d still consider it a great night.

As they ate, she’d plied him with questions about his time playing with The Cranks: how he’d met his bandmates, the crowded loneliness of travelling far from home in a cramped tour bus, the thrill of performing onstage for hundreds - and later, thousands - of screaming fans. He tried to focus less on the sex and drugs, more on the rock ‘n’ roll, but he didn’t shy away from the topics altogether. Belle was a smart woman; she had to know that rock stars were drawn to vice like moths to a flame. But that didn’t mean he had to rub it in her face.

He even reminisced about his time with Jed in Manchester. Getting fake IDs and working under the table at a pub. The months spent convincing the owner to let them play two-man shows to a crowd more interested in getting pissed than listening to music. Meeting Pete and Jeff, the men who would join their little act with bass guitar and drums, respectively. Late nights in their practice space, getting high and jamming for hours before crawling into their beds as the pitch black of the night sky faded to the dingy gray of pre-dawn. The elation of signing their first record deal. He hadn’t let himself remember the good times with his brother in nearly two decades. Talking about him without feeling the crushing weight of guilt was… it was nice.

“It all sounds amazing,” she sighed as he took a gulp of cider to moisten his throat. “Living life on your own terms, reaching out and touching so many lives, travelling and seeing the world… It sounds like a dream come true. Why would you ever give that up?”

“Mm.” He swallowed the last of his drink, draining the glass to buy himself some time. Belle topped him up without a word. “Thanks.” He took another sip, rolling the tart, bubbling beverage over his tongue. “For a young man, it  _ was _ a dream come true. Especially once our popularity really took off. Suddenly, you’re everyone’s best friend. Blokes I’d never met were buying us drinks. Women threw themselves at us. We had our pick of parties to attend more nights than not. Our record company put us up in swanky hotels, and footed the bill when we trashed our rooms. After a while, all that fame, that - that  _ worship _ , it goes to your head, and you start thinking, ‘I deserve this. This is my due.’ But that lifestyle… well, it catches up with you,” he evaded. He stared into the amber liquid in his glass, thumbs running over the cool condensation that beaded at the base. “You don’t realize that all that special treatment, all that bullshit, has nothing to do with you. It’s all about the fame. You could be anybody. You could be the biggest fucking arsehole in the room - and back then, I probably was - and they act like you’re their bloody hero.” He leaned his cheek on his palm, fingers scrubbing restlessly at his mouth. “Once the fame goes, everything else goes with it, and you have to try and figure out who the hell you are without it.”

“Well, I like who you are without it.” She reached out and lay her hand, palm up, on the table in invitation. How could he deny such a request? He slid his palm in hers, smiling when her thumb lightly traced slow figure eights around his first two knuckles. She beamed back at him, the rosy apples of her cheeks warm against the cool blue of her eyes. “Now see, this is so much better than Googling someone. I bet I could have learned all there is to know about your band in under thirty minutes, but I wouldn’t have learned anything about  _ you _ . I like hearing things from you much better.”

Lachlan frowned. How long had he been talking about ancient history? Surely not for too long. He paused to listen to the music playing over Belle’s laptop speakers. The third song on the album was playing… for the second time.  _ Shite. Did I really flap my gob for an hour? _ He raked his free hand through his hair, sweeping his fringe back and fluffing the hair at the back. “Jesus, I didn’t mean to prattle on about myself so long. You should’ve stopped me.”

Belle’s smile didn’t dwindle, but it quirked wryly. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’ve been asking you questions the whole time. I  _ like _ hearing stories, and I love learning about you.”

“Still. I should’ve been asking you questions, too.”

“I promise my life is nowhere near as interesting as yours,” she demurred. 

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter to me.” At her disbelieving look he scooted forward until he was perched on the edge of his chair, the fingers of his free hand gliding along her warm, silky cheek to thread through her hair. “Belle, as far as I’m concerned, you could have been born in this very apartment and never met a single other person before I walked into the library, and I’d still find you fascinating. Even if you just want to talk about your favorite books, I want to hear it all.”

“Alright, alright, you win,” Belle conceded, pulling back and letting his hands slip away. “Tell you what: you go pick the next CD we’ll listen to, and I’ll bring our drinks to the couch. Then you can ask me all the questions you want.”

“Deal.” While Belle moved to the living room, Lachlan shuffled through his CDs, finally settling on a Led Zeppelin album. He wasn’t sure it would be to her taste, but it had a few songs that told stories. Maybe she’d like that.

Once this album finished, he could put on some mood music.

Once the disc was in the drive and he hit play, he turned to the couch to see Belle curled up on the middle cushion waiting for him, bare feet tucked under her. Gazing up at him from beneath her lashes, she patted the cushion next to her invitingly. His feet carried him toward her of their own volition as the opening vocals played. 

_ Hey, hey, mama, said the way you move _

_ Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove _

They both froze, staring at each other wide-eyed.

“Aw  _ hell _ ,” he muttered.

******

_ Uh, uh, child, way you shake that thing _

_ Gonna make you burn, gonna make you sting _

Belle burst into a fit of helpless giggles, beckoning him closer. “ _ Please _ tell me this isn’t you trying to set the mood,” she begged, wiping merry tears from her eyes as he settled in next to her.

“God, no. I mean, not unless it was working.” He waggled his eyebrows at her with an exaggerated leer, sending her into another laughing fit.

“Definitely not.” Despite her words, she snagged the hand nearest her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, sidling up to cuddle next to him. His warmth bled into her through his crisp white shirt, inspiring a tingling warmth in her lower belly. The spice of his aftershave blended with his own natural scent in an intoxicating aroma that enticed her to bury her face in the crook of his neck and breathe all of him in. 

Gentle, teasing fingers played slowly in her hair, the light touches tickling her scalp and making her shiver in delight. God, she could sit here and let him do that forever. “Tell me about your family,” he prompted.

She hesitated. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

He shrugged, the movement jostling her a little. “Whatever you want to tell me.”

Belle paused to consider, letting the soothing touch of Lachlan’s fingers in her hair wash over her. Now wasn’t the time to talk about how alcohol had ravaged her family and eventually driven her from her home. But she could offer something. “I grew up in Melbourne. It was me, Mum, Dad, and my sister. We lived in a little flat over my parents’ shop.”

“What kind of shop was it?”

“A florist shop. Flowers were Mum and Dad’s passion. Everything in our apartment was floral print, and we had vases full of whatever flowers they didn’t manage to sell.” She smiled fondly, reminiscing. “No matter what time of year it was, home always smelled like fresh flowers: roses, freesia, lilacs… It was comforting, knowing that no matter what the world outside threw at you, there was always beauty and light waiting at home.”

“Sounds nice. Homely,” Lachlan said. 

“If I’m honest, it got old after a while,” she admitted. “They loved their work, and they sort of assumed that we would, too, so they had us help out in the shop a lot. I  _ like _ flowers. I just don’t need to know everything about them. God, even our middle names are flowers! Mine’s Amaryllis, before you ask,” she added with a scrunch of her nose. “My sister got off easy. Her middle name’s Rose.”

“Mine’s David,” he offered. “Da liked biblical names. I think he wanted to name me something else, but Mam put her foot down after he named my older brother Jedidiah. Said he lost naming privileges.” His hand slid downward, stroking her upper arm with the backs of his fingers. “You’re pretty far from home. Do you get to see your family at all?”

She shook her head. “Mum died when I was twelve, and Dad when I was twenty-six - two years after I came here.”

“What about your sister?”

“We’re not close,” was all she said. She didn’t want to think about Lacey tonight.

Lachlan took the hint and changed the subject. The conversation went on from there, only tapering off once when Belle wanted to listen to a song more closely, to Lachlan’s amusement (“You’ve  _ never _ heard Stairway to Heaven? It’s been overplayed on the radio for decades!”). They discussed her favorite books, their favorite movies, and the sights she wanted to see around Scotland (“if I can get to them someday.”).

Eventually they lapsed into a comfortable silence, stretched out on the couch in each other’s arms. At some point, Belle had gone from sitting up, leaning lightly against Lachlan’s side, to stretched out with her head pillowed on his chest, and she’d encouraged him to put up his legs and tangle them with her own. As the music continued, questing fingers tentatively explored unmapped places to seek the spots that titillated the most. Lachlan happened upon a spot at the back of Belle’s neck that made her shiver and break out into gooseflesh when brushed with his calloused fingertips. Not to be outdone, Belle discovered that running a finger over the outer edge of Lachlan’s ear sped his pulse and hitched his breath. She pressed her ear closer to his chest, blocking out the music. Lachlan’s throbbing heartbeat and stuttering gasps were the only soundtrack she wanted to hear.

Belle was playing idly with a button on Lachlan’s shirt, debating whether to push it through the buttonhole, when the final strains of guitar faded and her laptop fell silent. She lifted her head from his chest to look at him. He stared back dumbly for a moment, then shifted under her in a vain attempt to sit up. “I should…”

“Lachlan.” Her voice came out in a husky whisper as she popped the button open, leaving the edges of the fabric as they lie instead of spreading them to reveal a new expanse of skin just waiting to be discovered. “Stay.”

His gaze flickered over her: her eyes, her lips, the barest hint of cleavage peeking from the neckline of her dress, and back to her eyes. “You’re sure?” At her mute nod, his fingers carded through her hair, tugging her up until her lips aligned perfectly with his, and his thigh pressed deliciously between her own, the rough texture of the denim inflaming against her soft inner thighs. She sighed into his mouth, melting into him as his tongue teased its way past her lips, inviting her own to play against it. 

One hand left her hair to wrap against the side of her neck, the blunt edges of his nails scraping against that spot at the back of her neck that made her whimper and roll her hips against his thigh, the friction a welcome relief against the building ache. With fumbling fingers she undid the rest of the buttons of his shirt, slipping a hand inside to traverse the warm, smooth skin underneath. Circling the tight bud of his nipple with one finger elicited a gasp from him that parted their lips. Not to be deterred, she trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, taking his earlobe between her teeth and nipping lightly. His hips bucked once underneath her. Thus encouraged, she darted her tongue out to lave at the shell of his ear, his panting groans sending a jolt of heat surging through her veins. Oh, but he made the most beautiful sounds.

“God, Belle,” he gasped, hips twitching and jerking in desperation, “you don’t - fuck - don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Reaching down with her free hand, she cupped his thick length through the fly of his jeans. Grasping her wrist, he ground himself into the heel of her palm with a rough groan before stilling. “I know  _ exactly _ what I’m doing to you,” she whispered in his ear.

“Fuck,” he hissed. His hands wandered to her hips, encouraging her to rock against his thigh. “Belle, let me - let me--”

She silenced him with a sizzling kiss, swallowing whatever he’d been about to say. Relinquishing his lower lip with a final nibble, she reared upright, whimpering at the pressure of his leg pressing up against her clit. “Bedroom?”

“God, yes!”

Belle dragged herself up off of him reluctantly, her cunt weeping at the loss of pressure. With a brazen sway of her hips, she led the way to the bedroom, squealing when his hand reached out to lightly swat her bottom.

******

Lachlan didn’t have so much as a moment to take in Belle’s bedroom before she pounced, pulling him down for a lush kiss while her cool little hands worked the sleeves of his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms before returning to his chest as though drawn by magnets. His stomach clenched reflexively at the chilled touch on his heated flesh. He groaned eagerly into her mouth, secretly delighting in her uninhibited show of desire. 

The moment his arms were freed, his hands palmed her hips, fingers rucking up the hem of her skirt inch by excruciating inch until, with a groan of triumph, his fingers met the silky skin that had haunted his thoughts for weeks. His caress moved slowly higher, pulling her dress up around her waist to brush her ribs, seeking permission. At her nod, he tugged the garment over her head, tossing it to flutter to the floor. 

Belle leaned in to kiss him, but he forestalled her with a hand on each shoulder, holding her at arm’s length so he could look at her. She was the very picture of debauched need: breath panting through kiss-swollen lips, eyes dark with lust, curls in utter disarray from his fingers. As he looked, a rosy blush stained her cheeks, spilling down her chest to the dove gray cups of her lace-edged cotton bra. The soft plane of her belly ended in a matching pair of knickers that rode low on her wide hips. His breath whooshed out of his lungs.

“Is… is this okay?” Belle asked, chewing on her lip hard enough to leave marks. Her eyes didn’t quite meet his, staring somewhere in the vicinity of his chin.

“Oh, Belle.” Where did the bold minx who ground herself against him while palming his cock go? He didn’t see how such a stunning woman could be self-conscious about her looks, but if she needed a little reassurance, he was happy to give it. He thumbed her lip tenderly, pulling it free of its confines. “You’re gorgeous.” 

“Thank you.” Despite her words, she didn’t seem to take much comfort from the compliment. She still avoided his gaze, and wrung her hands.

His heart sank. She was getting cold feet - which was fine. He wasn’t such an arsehole that he’d pressure her into something she wasn’t ready for. But he couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed. “Hey.” Taking her by the hand, he led her to the bed and perched on the edge, encouraging her to do the same. Instead, she curled up in his lap with her legs slung across his thighs, burying her face in his throat. She was so warm against him, so soft that he couldn’t resist running his hands soothingly up and down her back. The sweet, floral scent of her shampoo wafted up to his nose. His cock twitched hopefully in the tight confines of his jeans.  _ Down, boy _ , he thought ruthlessly. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

She shook her head, her nose nuzzling his throat and hair tickling under his chin. “It’s not that,” she said, her voice muffled against his neck. “I  _ want _ this. I’ve been fantasizing about it for weeks. It’s just...” 

Lachlan suppressed a delighted smile. The idea of Belle indulging in fantasies of the two of them together was probably the best compliment he’d ever received. But right now something was bothering her. “Just what?” he prompted.

She was quiet for a long moment, her hands moving restlessly over his shoulders. “It’s been a  _ long _ time,” she said quietly. “I guess I’m just nervous I’m out of practice.”

“How long?” he asked, trailing his hands over her spine.

“I was twenty-two, so… eight years?” 

“Hm.” Eight years without sex? He could hardly believe it. A smart, kind, passionate, gorgeous woman like her? She should be beating off potential lovers with a stick. But now wasn’t the time to ask her about it. “Do you want to stop?”

“No!” she yelped with flattering fervor. She slipped off his lap, and Lachlan had to press his lips together to smother a groan of protest as she deprived him of the heat of her skin against his. He needn’t have worried, though; before he could react, she’d thrown a leg over him and proceeded to kiss him nearly senseless. His fingers splayed across her back, clasping her to his chest as close as he could.

Dimly, a small part of his brain that wasn’t utterly consumed by Belle - her smell, her taste, the downy heat of her skin, the way she wriggled so enticingly in his lap - recognized that they hadn’t actually addressed her insecurity. She vacillated so quickly between brazen tease and hesitant lass that he could hardly keep up. If she wanted to keep going, he sure as hell wasn’t going to argue, but he’d keep an eye out for any signs of reluctance from her. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d done to deserve the attention of this incredible woman - not just her enthusiastic need, but also her affection and fondness - but he was determined not to fuck it up.

Lachlan’s thoughts splintered as Belle ground herself roughly against him. His hips bucked helplessly in response. With an impatient growl she broke the kiss and raised herself up just high enough to slip a hand between them to undo the button of his fly and lower the zip. She was on him again before he could do more than groan in relief as his aching cock was freed from its denim cage, stiff and begging for attention. Shimmying his hips to dislodge his jeans must have pressed him right where she needed him, because she keened desperately into his mouth. Jeans forgotten and scrunched around his knees, he swallowed her beautiful sounds eagerly, content to let her take what she needed from him. Mostly. His hands came to the clasp of her bra, making short work of it and helping her to shrug out of the offending garment. She pressed herself back into him eagerly, the fevered tips of her nipples rubbing against his chest. His hands trailed over her ribcage, circling around front to caress her breasts. They fit so perfectly in his palms he could have wept. Rolling her nipples lightly between his thumbs and forefingers drew a ragged gasp from her mouth, and he used the brief separation as an opportunity to drag open-mouthed kisses over her jaw and down to her throat. Her pulse throbbed against his mouth. Thirsty for her, his tongue darted out to taste her heartbeat’s rapid staccato. The salty tang of her sweat went straight to his head; he was helpless to do anything but suck and lick at every inch he could reach of her pale neck.

“Oh god,” she whimpered. “Lachlan, please touch me. I need…”

Somehow, Lachlan managed to wedge a hand between their undulating hips. Brushing his fingers over the gusset of her knickers, his breath hissed through tightly clenched teeth. Fuck, she was absolutely  _ drenched _ for him! Before he even knew what he was doing, he had Belle on her back, pulling her knickers down while she eagerly raised her hips to assist him. Raising them to his face and inhaling was more instinct than conscious thought, and he hardly even registered Belle’s bashful blush. The musky scent of her sent a bolt of need sizzling through his veins that he was helpless to ignore.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ !” Shucking his jeans off the rest of the way, he positioned himself between the legs he’d been surreptitiously ogling for weeks. The sight of the glistening curls at the junction of her thighs made his mouth water. “Oh god, Belle, you have to let me taste you.”

The warm touch of Belle’s hand caressed his cheek tenderly, both soothing and inflaming him. Her thumb ran restlessly over his lower lip, and he opened eagerly for her, teeth scraping lightly. To his relief, her hand moved to wrap around the back of his head, fingers wound in his hair, pulling him exactly where he wanted to be. “Please,” she whispered.

He didn’t need to be asked twice. Not wanting to overwhelm her in case she got cold feet, he peppered her inner thighs with open-mouthed kisses. But Belle, it seemed, had different ideas; with the hand still buried in his hair, she guided him ever closer to her shining folds, flushed pink with arousal. He sighed at the sight and sipped lightly at her outer lips. He planned to take his time with her, but as the first traces of her flavor exploded over his tongue - musky and earthy, with a hint of tartness reminiscent of wild berries he’d eaten as a boy - he found himself ravenous for more. Against his will, his hips rocked unhurriedly against the mattress, granting some much-needed relief to his rigid length as his tongue delved deeper. He needed more. His nose was filled with her scent, his mouth with her savor, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to feel her surround him. Greedy hands grasped her legs, pulling them over his shoulders until the pale, silken skin of her inner thighs pressed against his ears. He was buried her, engulfed in her, and nothing had ever felt sweeter. His pained groans harmonized with her desperate cries in a perfect duet.

It wasn’t long before her legs were quaking all around him, trembling under his grasping hands. He redoubled his efforts, but the hand still maintaining a death grip on his hair tore him cruelly from his prize. Gaping stupidly at Belle, he took in her wrecked features: face red and glistening with sweat, breasts heaving with each breath, hair a tangled mess from writhing against her pillows.

“Whuh…?” he asked intelligently.

******

Taking in Lachlan’s utterly wrecked visage nearly made Belle want to shove his head right back between her thighs to finish what he’d started. His hair stuck out in all directions like a wild halo, silver highlights glinting in the light of her reading lamp. His pupils were blown, and his entire lower face glistened with her juices. As his lips darted out to catch the last of her flavor, her clit throbbed in memory of exactly what miracles he could work with that mouth. 

“I want you in me,” she said in response to his inquisitive grunt. “Did you bring…?”

He stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. “Yeah,” he finally said. He fished through the pocket of his abandoned pants and tossed a few foil packets on the bed. 

He reached for one, but Belle snagged it out from under his fingers. “Let me.” He nodded.

Without preamble, she wrapped her hand around his unyielding, velvety length. The pulsing heat nearly scorched her fingers as she stroked him slowly with a twist of her wrist. Her other hand moved to play with his balls, but he stilled her with a shake of his head. 

“Don’t tease,” he gasped, his accent thickening. “I’m not gonnae last if you keep that up.”

“Mmm. Maybe next time?” she asked with an innocent look that was only slightly marred when she tore the packet open with her teeth.

“Fuck. Sure. Whatever you want.” 

She tried to be as businesslike as she could while rolling the condom over him, but he still hissed, his cock twitching in her grasp. Lying back on her pillows, she pulled him on top of her to rest in the cradle of her thighs. 

A slight shiver of apprehension traveled down her spine - not as strong as the anxiety she’d felt when she stripped out of her dress, but still there nonetheless. What if she disappointed him? He seemed to be enjoying himself, but she hadn’t done that much. Should she be doing more? Would he prefer it if she went down on him? Was it presumptuous for her to be on the bottom? A man as worldly as Lachlan had surely done things sexually that she hadn’t experienced. What if he thought she was boring, or unskilled?

“Hey.” His nose nudged against hers, pulling her from her worries. “All right, beautiful?”

She nodded, unable to speak around the worries that tightened her chest.

He kissed her then - slow, lingering, and deep, until the muscles she didn’t even realize she’d been clenching finally relaxed. “At the risk of stating the obvious,” he murmured, “I’m having the time of my life. Trust me - you have nothing to worry about.”

Blinking against the relieved tears in her eyes, Belle bussed his lips in gratitude. Taking the heavy length of him in hand, she guided him to her entrance. “Go slow,” she pleaded.

He nodded wordlessly, pushing slowly into her aching sheath. He froze at her hissed inhale as she stretched to accommodate his girth. It didn’t hurt - she was far too wet for that - but she was unaccustomed to being breached after so long without lovers. At her nod he pushed a little further, more and more until he was seated fully inside her with a rumbling growl, his hips flush with hers. She moaned at the sheer fullness of having him inside her. There was no room inside her for worries, for frustrations, for anything but him and her and this perfect moment.

A slight tilt of her hips hinted that she was ready for him to move. He pulled out only slightly, and his hips snapped forward as though unable to bear being separated even that much. Belle cried out as he hit a spot inside her that made her see stars. She was nearly at the brink already, still keyed up from the way Lachlan’s mouth had worked her over. That mouth was on her own now, his tongue delving into her in direct mimicry of what his hips were doing below, their groans muffled by lips and tongues and teeth. His fringe fell over his face and into hers, the strands forming a curtain against the outside world.

All too soon she felt the first flutters of approaching climax. Bracing her feet against the mattress, she urged Lachlan on faster with frantic touches and babbled fragments of words. He obliged happily, his hips slapping against hers with every thrust. 

“Come on,” he begged in a harsh whisper. “Just let go. Come for me, beautiful.” 

His words pushed her over the edge and she came with a helpless cry, her cunt greedily clutching at him as light burst behind her eyes. With stuttering thrusts and agonized groans, Lachlan followed moments later. They somehow managed to find the mental capacity to nurse each other through the aftershocks with reverent touches and sweet kisses before they both collapsed into a pile, utterly spent. Luxuriating in his weight on her, Belle rubbed soothing circles over Lachlan’s back as the light sheen of sweat quickly dried on both of them.

With a reluctant groan he rolled off of her to take care of the condom. Belle watched the play of muscles in his legs and arse as he went, nibbling on her lower lip while she tugged the blankets out from under herself and shimmied underneath. He really had a fantastic backside, and she wouldn’t mind taking in this view more often. Soon he was hurrying back to the bed, and she scooted over to make room for him to tuck himself under the blankets.

“I’ll say it one more time:  _ nothing _ to worry about,” he said, tugging her in for a passionate kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! They had sex! Hope it lived up to expectations. This took a lot out of me, but I had a lot of fun with it. Hope nobody's offended by my use of the word "cunt." I find I really hate a lot of the usual terms for vaginas, but I LOVE the word cunt.
> 
> Lyrics are from "Black Dog" by Led Zeppelin.
> 
> Chapter title lifted from an unnamed song by The Cranks. The one Lachlan plays during his podcast about Jed. Are YouTube links allowed? If so, I can link the song here.


	8. I Thought That We Would Happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came ridiculously easily to me. Which could be a good or bad thing.

Lachlan was drifting somewhere on the fuzzy edge between asleep and awake when he felt a pair of pillowy soft lips drag across his chest. For a brief second he couldn’t remember where he was. The room was pitch dark, which told him nothing. The bed was more comfortable than his own lumpy mattress, and his arms were full of a woman with the softest skin he’d ever felt. The tips of her silky curls tickled his chest, teased his nose with the scent of flowers. Belle.

A slow, lazy smile curled his lips as he felt her tongue dart out to taste him. After their first bout of mindblowing sex, they’d cuddled together on the bed - him on his back, with her curled into his side, head on his shoulder and legs tangled with his - until they fell asleep. This was a new experience for Lachlan. Apart from his ex-wife, all of his previous partners had been either one night stands, or friends with benefits. Cuddling had never been on the menu, and it had never occurred to him to want it. As for Catherine, she was a hot sleeper - couldn’t stand physical contact when she drifted off.

With Belle in his arms, he felt submerged in safety, covered in comfort. Clearly he’d been missing out all these years. And if he had her roving hands and hot mouth coaxing him awake to look forward to, then he could  _ definitely _ get used to this.

He held his breath as Belle’s mouth found his nipple, circling it with her tongue before drawing it into her warm mouth with a suction that sent a bolt of pleasure straight to his cock. Stifling a moan, he fought to keep his hips still as her fingers quested down his stomach, toward his groin. Light, tickling touches teased his lower belly and hips, cruelly steering clear of the place he needed her touch the most.

The wet heat of her mouth abandoned his chest, the sudden rush of cool air making him shiver. The mattress shifted beside him, and a warm puff of air hit his ear.

“I know you’re awake,” Belle whispered huskily.

Groping blindly, his fingers found and threaded through her hair. He tugged her closer to align his lips with hers, but didn’t cross the final distance between them. Her breath huffed impatiently against his lips. A smug grin spread slowly across his lips.

“I can hear you smiling,” she grumbled. “Kiss me already.” Still, he held back.

The first few times they kissed, Lachlan had let Belle initiate. Part of him hadn’t trusted his judgment to read Belle’s signals, and he was determined not to fuck this up by pushing for too much, too fast. 

Tonight had thoroughly laid those fears to rest. Now he had a different reason for holding back. Belle was not a patient woman when it came to sex, and teasing brought out a sensual avarice in her that transformed her soft, gentle caresses to groping clutches that greedily tugged him closer. That uncharacteristic aggression warmed him inside and out, made him feel wanted, and he loved every second of it. He’d happily let her drag him wherever she wanted, a willing puppet on her strings.

Her reaction now didn’t disappoint. Instead of tugging him closer by the hair of his nape, she pushed at his shoulders with a growl, pressing him firmly into the mattress while she threw a leg over him to straddle his hips. His blood boiled at the feel of her dripping folds rubbing over his aching cock. His breath hissed between his lips as he gripped her hips, stilling her before he utterly disgraced himself. He felt Belle lean over him, her perfect breasts pressing against his chest as she prepared to kiss him, when a phone vibrated.

Belle froze. Every muscle in her body tensed. The light from her phone on her nightstand illuminated her face just enough that he could see the anguished frustration in her eyes.

“Just ignore it,” he whispered.

Her glance darted back and forth between him and the phone, torn by indecision. “I… I  _ can’t _ ,” she moaned, climbing off him and snatching up her phone. She hurried out of the room without another word and closed the door behind her. He could hear her muffled voice through the wall as she answered the phone.

Lachlan sat up, fumbling blindly for the switch on the bedside lamp and turning it on with a click. The light blinded him temporarily, and he blinked against its glare. His arousal had completely subsided in the face of Belle’s upset. He didn’t know what was going on, but it couldn’t be good.

“No. You  _ promised _ me. You promised one night…” her voice trailed into unintelligibility as she paced away from the door.

He raked his fingers through his hair with a ragged sigh. A brief search of the room revealed his boxers crumpled at the foot of the bed. He slipped them on and perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for Belle to finish her call.

“Please. After everything I do, I at least deserve…” More muffled words, and a resigned sigh. Then, “Fine. I’ll see you soon.”

Lachlan waited a few more moments, but Belle didn’t come back to the bedroom. Casting his eyes about the room, he spotted a fluffy, powder blue robe hanging from the closet door. He snatched it up. Leaving the room, he found her slumped over the kitchen table, her face buried in her hands. Her back was turned to him, her nude form cast half in shadow in the light from the stovetop.

In all the times he’d seen Belle, she’d seemed tirelessly optimistic - like fate could throw a tsunami of shit at her, and she’d come out the other side shaking a few drops of water off her umbrella and galoshes with a smile, untouched by the worst the world had to offer. Even when he’d unwittingly upset her last weekend, she’d shrugged off any hurt feelings in moments. Seeing her deflated like this didn’t sit right with him. Whoever was on the other end of that phone call had the power to leave her looking utterly defeated.

Coming up silently behind her, he draped the robe over her shoulders. She hastily wiped at her face before wrapping the robe around herself without bothering to slip her arms into the sleeves. Lachlan rested a hand on her shoulder with a reassuring squeeze.

“Everything alright?” he asked, slipping into the kitchen chair opposite hers.

She nodded tiredly. Her eyes stayed glued on her hands, which were currently clasped in her lap. “I need to pick my roommate up from the bar,” she said.

Lachlan blinked. That was it? From her manner, he was sure that something terrible had happened. So they probably wouldn’t be having sex again tonight. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little disappointed, but there would be other opportunities. As long as he could sleep with her tucked sweetly into his side, he’d be satisfied.

“Do you want me to come with you, or would you rather I wait here?” he asked.

Belle’s hands fisted the fabric of her robe, and her face went curiously blank. “I need to go alone,” she said quietly. “And you can’t be here when I get back.”

Shock rendered Lachlan mute, his mouth flapping wordlessly. After a solid thirty seconds, he managed to get one word out: “ _ Why _ ?”

She shook her head. “Please don’t make me answer that.”

When she refused to elaborate further, his surprise very quickly turned to anger. “Fine. I’ll get out of your hair,” he snapped, shoving himself out of his chair.

“Lachlan…”

He ignored her, circling around her so he could get to his clothes in the bedroom. Shoving his legs into his jeans, he cursed as his foot got stuck, making him lose his balance and pitch to the side. One hand shot out and caught the wall, allowing him to regain his footing long enough to yank his jeans back up and shrug his shirt back on. He fastened the buttons with fumbling fingers, and he was pretty sure he’d managed to mismatch the buttons to their holes. Fuck it - he couldn’t be arsed to fix them. Pausing only to grab his overnight bag, he turned to the door to see Belle standing at the threshold. Her hands still clutched the lapels of her robe closed over her front, and she was gnawing at her lower lip hard enough to hurt.

“Lachlan.” Her shoulders were still hunched, her head lowered like a kicked dog, and that nervous, insecure look was back in her eyes. Anger burned in his belly like tar - hot, black and roiling - at the sight. It pissed him off that she was unceremoniously kicking him out of her flat. He hated that she refused to give him any sort of explanation. But more than anything, he fucking  _ loathed _ whatever made her shrink in on herself like that. Maybe it was this “roommate” of hers. Maybe it was him. If she wouldn’t talk to him, he’d never know. “Lachlan, don’t be like this.”

He strode to the door, relieved when she stepped aside to let him pass. He might be seething, but he wasn’t such an arsehole that he’d shove her out of his way. He packed up his CDs without a word, dumping them carelessly into his bag. Slinging the bag over one shoulder, he prepared to leave.

“Would you please just talk to me?” Belle cried.

He stopped, hand resting on the doorknob. “Will you tell me why you’re sending me packing?” he asked without turning.

She said nothing.

“Then there’s nothing to talk about.” He opened the door and stepped through, careful not to slam the door behind him - no matter how much he wanted to. 

As he stalked down the hallway toward the stairwell, he heard one word clearly even through the walls.

“ _ FUCK! _ ”

******

Sucking on her front teeth, Belle stared straight ahead at nothing as Lacey opened the passenger door. Her fingers maintained a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel to hide their infuriated trembling. Instead of sitting in the front, her sister tilted the seat forward so she could settle in the back. Typical.

“Seat belt,” she reminded.

“Yeah, yeah,  _ mum _ , I know t’ put on my seat belt,” Lacey snarked back.

Belle steadied herself with deep breaths. Now was not the time to stoop to Lacey’s level and get into an argument. No matter how much she wanted to. She pulled out of the pub’s parking lot and drove in silence. After a minute, Lacey spoke up.

“Turn th’ radio on.”

“No. We’ll be home soon.”

A huff, and another minute of silence. Then, “So howwuz yer date?”

The urge to pull the car over, turn around, and slap her sister in the face was overwhelming. “Ruined. Thanks for asking.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Lacey scoffed. “It’s two in th’ bloody morning. Doubt I was interruptin’ anything more excitin’ than yer snorin’.” She made a show of stretching and yawning with a loud groan. “You gonna see ‘im again?”

“Maybe.” She still wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. Tonight had been possibly the best night of her life before it had been ruined. There had to be some way to fix what had gone wrong between her and Lachlan.

“Tha’s a yes. So when do I get t’ meet ‘im?”

“Never.” 

A glance into the rearview mirror showed Lacey’s scowl. “Oh god, ‘re you  _ still _ on that? It was eight years ago, and I ap… apolllll… I said I was sorry!”

“You apologized the previous three times, too. Doesn’t mean much when you keep doing it.”

“Whatever,” Lacey huffed. “Not like th’ last few guys you dated were winners.”

“Fuck you.”

Lacey gasped in mock affront. “Why, Princess Belle, watch yer fuckin’ mouth!”

Belle cursed herself internally as she pulled into the parking lot.  _ Don’t let her get to you. You know better than to give her any ammo. _ “For the millionth time, stop calling me that.”

“Maybe you should stop  _ actin’ _ like that.”

Belle pulled into her parking spot, hitting the brakes with a bit more force than necessary and taking savage pleasure in her twin’s surprised yelp. She unbuckled her seat belt and climbed out of the car. “I’m going to bed. I’m sure you can make it back up to the flat without help.” Slamming the door behind her wasn’t productive, but it made her feel better. So did stomping in the building, up the stairs, and into her flat.

When she got to her bedroom, she stopped short. The sheets were still rumpled from taking Lachlan to her bed just a few hours ago. God, they probably still smelled like him, too. She couldn’t face that just now. She’d wait out in the living room to make sure Lacey got in alright. Then maybe she’d be ready.

When Lacey didn’t open the door after ten minutes, Belle started to worry. She really shouldn’t have left Lacey alone like that. No matter how horrible she could be, she didn’t deserve to get hurt. Guiltily, she opened the door to go check on her, and heaved a sigh of relief. Lacey was sitting in the hallway, back propped up against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of her. 

Donning her figurative Nurse Belle hat - not for the first time this week - Belle helped her sister to her feet. It seemed that the last few drinks were still hitting her, because Belle didn’t so much help Lacey walk as drag her to the couch. Taking one look at her sister’s dazed expression, Belle fetched the bucket.

While she was gone, Lacey had tried to take her shoes off, but her clumsy fingers couldn’t navigate the clasps. Belle knelt at her feet and took the shoes off, eyeing a new scuff on the toe of the left one ruefully. Maybe it could be buffed out. Later. 

“Sweetie? How are you feeling?” she asked. Lacey moaned and shook her head. “Think you can drink some water for me?” When Lacey’s shoulder jerked in what might have been a shrug, Belle went to the kitchen to fetch a glass. The sound of retching brought her running back. “No, no, no, Lacey, use the—” Too late. Belle shoved Lacey’s head into the bucket, using her free hand to hold her hair back out of the mess.

At least she’d had the presence of mind to lean over the side of the couch. Cleaning up the hardwood would be much quicker than scrubbing the carpet.

Once the worst of the illness passed, Belle laid her sister down on her side. Coaxing her to nibble and sip at crackers and water with gentle praise, Belle left Lacey just long enough to rinse out the bucket and bring it back. She quickly placed it back near Lacey’s head in case it was needed again, then mopped up the puddle of sick from the floor. Perching on the couch, she gently stroked the hair out of her sister’s face in the way Mum had always done when they were young.

“Sissy?” Lacey whimpered.

Belle swallowed against the ache in her throat that threatened to choke her. Apart from bad nights like this, Lacey hadn’t called her that since they were twelve. “Yeah, Lacey?”

“I miss Mum.”

A single sob escaped Belle’s lips, and she shoved the rest down ruthlessly. Now was not the time to cry. Lacey needed her to be strong. She was the big sister; it was her job to be the rock of the family. She could cry later. 

A small part of her wondered if later would ever come.

“I do too, sweetie,” she murmured.

“Yer not her,” her twin mumbled.

Oh, that hurt. After close to two decades of being at odds, Belle had thought that nothing Lacey could say had the power to get under her skin. How wrong she’d been. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Well don’t bother,” Lacey grumped. “Can’t replace her. Can’t…” She trailed off, and soon her breathing evened out into sleep.

Belle’s breath came in shuddering gasps as she struggled desperately against the tears that wanted to fall. This entire night had been so emotionally overwhelming: kissing Lachlan, making love with him, sending him away and facing his justifiable anger, bickering and taking care of her sister…. She felt raw, exposed, and so vulnerable. If she started crying about tonight, it would be so easy to cry about the last eighteen years. She was afraid that once the tears started falling, they might never stop.

Hurrying to the bathroom, she flipped on the light and stared into her reflection in the mirror. The sight that greeted her was hardly encouraging. Downturned lips trembling and red, eyebrows drawn down, fat teardrops poised to overflow from her eyelids and splash onto her cheeks. Time to push it all away. School her face to blankness. If she couldn’t see her sadness, maybe she’d stop feeling it.

She focused on one thing at a time. Slow the breathing. Relax her mouth. Massage the tenseness from her cheeks. Draw her brows back to a neutral position. By the time her eyes adopted a dull, lifeless expression, she felt more in control of herself. Still not ready to face what was next, but what choice did she have?

Her reluctant steps took her back to the bedroom. Stripping out of her now wrinkled dress, she changed into a cozy set of pajamas and climbed into her lonely bed. Sure enough, the scent of Lachlan’s sweat and aftershave surrounded her. What should have been a comforting smell instead sent a pang of despondency through her. A quick check of her phone showed no new calls or messages. She hadn’t really expected him to reach out - not at four in the morning, and not when he was angry with her - but she’d hoped.

Squeezing her eyes shut against the tears that stung them, she curled up around the pillow that still held the fragrance of his shampoo, holding it close to her chest.

Maybe things would be better tomorrow.

******

It had been a long two and a half days.

Lachlan collapsed into his computer chair with a gusty sigh, a drink in one hand, his face in the other. He had to pace himself. He had half a bottle to get him through to Friday, and no money to buy another. The handful of bills left in his wallet would be just enough to keep him fed until payday. 

Every time Belle’s face appeared in his mind, he had the simultaneous urges to take a drink, and dump his bottle down the drain and just deal with the eventual shaking and nausea. So far, the former kept winning out; there was a simmering fire of anger and hurt in his belly that demanded to be quenched. Alcohol probably wasn’t the key to putting out that fire, but he wasn’t exactly brimming with ideas.

Yesterday was the first time he’d ever skipped visiting her at the library, and the knowledge still stung. He’d almost left the sickening, stifling walls of his apartment multiple times to go see her, stopping himself every time. At this point, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to see her. He wasn’t sure she’d want to see him, either.

He’d acted like a right prat Saturday night (or early Sunday morning - whatever). He knew that. He had a temper that tended to run away from him when he felt slighted. Maybe if he’d been more understanding, things would have gone differently, somehow.

But Belle wasn’t blameless, either. What was she hiding from him? He tried to look at things as objectively as he could, and it didn’t look good. He knew that she lived with someone. He was pretty sure she’d said her roommate was a woman, but he’d been drunk at the time. Maybe his brain filled in the blanks with what he wanted to hear.

The fact was, he didn’t know anything about the roommate apart from their taste in music, and that Belle picked them up from the bar often. He didn’t know their name, or what they looked like, or what their relation was to Belle. She always called them her roommate, but judging by her reaction to Saturday night’s phone call, there was more there than she was letting on. You didn’t just drop everything to pick someone up at a bar after  _ begging _ for a reprieve unless there was some sort of relationship there.

With what little information he had, he could only come to one conclusion: Belle was living with a boyfriend (or girlfriend), and was cheating with Lachlan. The idea was enough to make him sick to his stomach.

He couldn’t believe it. It just didn’t add up. Sweet Belle French, the librarian with the kind smiles and romantic heart? The compassionate woman who opened her arms and her home to a drunk, washed-up pop rocker with nothing to offer? He simply couldn’t reconcile that with a woman who would use him to cheat, and then throw him out of her apartment. But what else was he supposed to think when she wouldn’t  _ talk _ to him?

His computer blooped, warning him that Arianwen was logging in for their weekly chat. He quickly drained his glass and hid it from the camera’s view just before his daughter’s face popped up on his screen. 

“Hey there, sweetheart. How are you?”

She beamed back at him. “Doing great! I’m really starting to get the hang of my job. My coworkers are really nice, and most of the regulars are patient while I learn their orders.”

“Only most, eh?”

“Well… a few of the older regulars asked me for impossible orders, and then yelled at me when I couldn’t do it.” She hunched her shoulders with a wince - a gesture that reminded Lachlan too much of Belle’s posture after her roommate’s call. He pushed the thought from his mind as she continued. “My boss said that they do that to all new hires, though, so I didn’t get in trouble. But never mind that - how are things with you? Have you started studying for your high school equivalency yet?”

Fuck. He’d completely forgotten mentioning that last time. Right now studying was the absolute last thing on his to-do list. But after how excited she’d been for him last week, he couldn’t bring himself to say so. “I haven’t started just yet. I’m still adjusting to my new job. Maybe next week.” It wasn’t  _ technically _ a lie. Maybe he really would start next week. He probably wouldn’t, but that was beside the point.

“Oh. That’s okay.” She frowned at the camera, leaning a little bit closer. “Are you okay?” she asked suddenly.

Shit. Could she tell he’d been drinking? Was he that obvious? He forced his face into a smile that probably looked about as convincing as it felt. “Of course, sweetheart, why?”

She shrugged, fiddling with the frayed edge of her oversized pajama shirt. “You just seem, I dunno. Sad.”

He chuckled with a rueful quirk of his lips. Trust his daughter to pick up on his moods so easily. She was really something else. “Just had a… misunderstanding with someone this weekend,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Nothing to worry about.”

"Oh.” She hesitated, opened her mouth as if to say something, and closed it again.

“What is it?”

“Um… was it a girl?” she asked.

A warm glow of pride suffused his chest, overshadowing the pang at the reminder of Belle. She was so damn perceptive. She must have gotten that from Catherine. She’d always been able to read his moods, and root out the cause in moments. Used to drive him stark raving. “Aye, a girl. Or, woman, I guess. Remember the librarian I mentioned last week? The one who talked to me about going for my diploma?”

“I  _ knew _ it!” Arianwen cried with a gleeful clap of her hands. “So what happened?”

“Ah…” he hedged. His love life wasn’t so desperate that he needed to vent to a teenager. But his relationship with his daughter was in dire enough straits that he couldn’t begrudge her this. Still, he’d keep it vague. “Let’s just say that there was something she felt she had to do, and I didn’t like it. I got angry and left, and we haven’t spoken since.”

“Why not?”

“Because--” He paused. Why weren’t they speaking? Why had he avoided her yesterday? Because he was angry with her, or she was angry with him? That was bollocks. Staying away wasn’t solving anything. If he talked to her, they could straighten out this whole mess. He’d give her a chance to explain. Surely she’d have a good explanation for what had happened on Saturday.

And if it turned out that his fears were right… well, knowing that would still be better than the agony of this limbo he found himself in.

“Because I’ve got my head too far up my arse to see the obvious solution,” he admitted. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.” He shook his head at her in wonder. “How did you do that? Get me to figure out what to do so quickly? Probably would’ve taken me days to get there by myself.”

“It’s something my therapist does sometimes,” she admitted with an embarrassed shrug. “When I’m upset and the thoughts get sort of tangled in my head, she just asks questions until I realize what the problem is. Once I know that, it’s easier to figure out what to do.”

Huh. He’d always thought that shrinks were overpaid quacks who invented problems in their client’s heads to keep the steady paychecks coming. Seemed like Arianwen’s therapist, at least, might be good for her. Maybe her mother’s involvement of a therapist in her life wasn’t such a hare-brained idea, after all.

******

It was twenty minutes to closing on Wednesday, and the library was silent as a grave. Nobody had passed through the doors in the past hour, and Belle had long since finished up her closing duties. All that was left was to wait out the clock until she could lock up. She currently had her nose buried in a book to pass the time.

To her surprise, the door swung open and someone came in. She looked up from her book with a greeting ready for whomever needed a book at this late hour. The words stuttered to a halt on her tongue. “Lachlan,” she said, heart in her throat.

He looked about as good as she’d felt these past three days. Pallor washed out his normally tan skin, and the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than she’d ever seen them. His features were drawn and careworn beneath a few days of accumulated scruff. 

Dread and elation warred within her, neither willing to give ground to the other. She’d missed him dreadfully since he’d stormed out of her apartment. When he’d failed to come see her on Monday, it had taken all of her fortitude to keep her worry and heartache from bleeding into her work. Even Mrs. Campbell had noticed, silently offering her a comforting cup of tea when nobody was looking. 

But he was here now. Did this mean he wasn’t angry with her anymore? Or had he decided to come here to end things?

“Belle.” He swallowed, his fingers toying with the links of his silver bracelet. “We need to talk. About - about Saturday.”

She eyed him warily. He was probably right, of course. Things had gotten twisted and knotted between them, things that needed to be brought out into the open. But there were things she couldn’t tell him just now. She couldn’t open herself to that kind of hurt. Not again. “Okay,” she said. 

He scrubbed at his face tiredly with one hand and sighed. His breath carried the faint astringent scent of whisky. “Why don’t you want me to meet your roommate?” he asked without preamble.

Of course he’d hit the issue right on the head. “That’s not it,” she said weakly, her heart pounding.

“Don’t lie to me,” he snarled, his accent thickening slightly in his anger. He bristled with jittery energy - lips pulled back in a grimace, hands gesticulating agitatedly. “You donnae jump a man’s bones an’ then kick him out of your flat like that unless ye need to get rid of ‘im quick.” He paused, looking to Belle for an answer. She didn’t have one to offer. He nodded as though her silence confirmed something. “So I've been thinkin’ since Sunday, an’ I came up with two reasons ye might not want me around yer roommate. So first things first: are ye ashamed of me?”

Belle gaped at him, stunned. How could he possibly think that of her? Hadn’t she made her feelings for him clear? They’d nearly kissed over the very desk that now stood like a vast gulf between them. “ _ What _ ? Why would you say that?”

“Oh, come on, then,” he spat, cheeks reddening. “A middle-aged cock-up like me? A drunk, high school dropout, no friends or family, cannae even afford to take a girl on a date? I’m sure you’re just dyin’ to introduce me to your mates.”

“I  _ never _ saw you that way,” she insisted. 

He scoffed. “Pull the other one.”

“I mean it.” He hesitated, then, his eyes softening uncertainly, and Belle pressed her advantage. “I see a man who’s made... unconventional decisions in life. Someone who sacrificed security for art and adventure, and got to have experiences most people only  _ dream _ of.” She laid her hand, palm up, on the desk in a clear invitation. He stared at it, the firm line of his mouth slackening, but didn’t take it. “I see a man who’s been hurt, somehow, but still tries to do better. He just… needs a hand to help him back to his feet.”

Whatever she’d said, it was apparently exactly the wrong thing. “Is that what this was all about?” he demanded. “Pity?”

He should have just slapped her in the face; that probably would have hurt less. “Is that really what you think of me?” she asked quietly, not bothering to mask the pain in her voice. “That I take a man to my bed like I’m some sort of charity?”

The anger seemed to drain out of him, then, but left frenetic desperation in its wake. “Well, what the hell else am I supposed to think?” He shoved his fingers through his hair, yanking it back from his face. “I’m trying to understand, Belle. Fuck me, but I’m trying. But you won’t talk to me!”

“I’m talking to you now!”

“But not giving me any answers,” he insisted. “All I know for sure is that you live with someone, and you’re going out of your way to keep us apart. So either you’re ashamed to be seen with me, or you’re a hell of a lot more involved with your ‘roommate’ than you let on.”

Rocking on her heels, Belle braced her hands on the desk to steady herself. She felt like she’d just been punched in the gut. “What, exactly, are you implying?” she ground out.

“I think you know exactly what I’m implying. So prove me wrong.” He stared into her eyes challengingly. “Let me meet them. Or hell, show me a picture. Tell me their name. Just give me  _ something.” _

The urge to slap him in the face was absolutely overwhelming. She dug her nails into the meat of her thumb as deeply as they’d go to resist the urge. “You don’t get to accuse me of sleeping around - twice! - and then make demands,” she bit out. 

“But—“

“Get. Out.”

He stared at her for a long moment, nostrils flaring, lips compressed in a thin line. “Fine. I don’t fucking need this anyway.”

Belle watched Lachlan storm out of the library, the second time in a row she’d thrown him out and saw the back of him set in a hard, unyielding line. How dare he? How dare he cheapen what had been growing between them into something shameful? She had shown him nothing but patience and kindness. Why couldn’t he allow her this one thing?

Perversely, a not-so-small part of her wanted to run after him. Apologize, and tell him everything. Wrap herself in his arms and kiss him until all thoughts fled and there was nothing but the two of them. 

With a snort of disgust, she closed up the library - switching the lights off, shutting down the computers, and closing the doors behind her. She needn’t have bothered hiding him from Lacey, she reflected as her key turned the lock. This time, they’d managed to ruin things all on their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah, I'm just gonna hide behind a clear plexiglass shield in anticipation of all the rotten fruit that's about to be thrown my way.
> 
> On the bright side - I was originally going to have Lacey cockblock them last chapter. So at least I was nice enough to let them have a good time! Right? Right?


	9. Look at All the Lonely People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: The first scene of this chapter contains references to past drug use, as well as a vague description of an established character death (If you've seen California Solo, you know the one). It also contains a fairly vivid description of a panic attack. If you're not comfortable reading this, you can skip it by CTRL-F'ing "Lacey Rose French" to bring you to scene 2.

_ The world communicated to him in swirls and spirals. How had he never noticed it before? Everything around him, everything in him, everything that ever was. The links of Jed’s silver bracelet. The curls in Pete’s hair. Jeff’s silver hoop earring. The drugs that pumped through his veins, circulating around and around. The music that eddied out of him, past the whorls of his fingertips, plucked into the tightly-coiled ringlets of his guitar strings, rippling out the speaker of his amp. The music spiraled around them, swelling in crescendo as the four of them fed on each other’s energy. Even the mustard-yellow paisley wallpaper danced and swirled in time with their wild melody. _

_ Then, discord. Panic. One of the four fell, breaking the quartet. Terror hammered a snare drum roll in his chest, tasted acrid in his mouth. Relax. Give him time - he’ll sleep it off. Keep going. Need to finish tonight. Can’t focus - the music comes out stilted and strained, and eventually not at all. Just let me fucking check! Jaw slack, eyes open and unseeing. Skin cold and stiff under desperate fingers. Jed’s dead, Lach! He’s fucking dead! _

Lachlan awoke with a choked off scream, clawing at the cloth of his loose-fitting T-shirt with blunt fingernails. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, and his chest was heavy and aching, like something massive was weighing him down, keeping the air from filling his lungs. The cold sweat covering him did nothing to alleviate the burning pinpricks that assailed him from head to toe.

Tears stung his eyes, panicked whimpers escaping with each exhale. Fuck, he was having a heart attack. Or a stroke. Or an aneurysm? He didn’t know what the hell that was, but it sounded bad. He needed a doctor, or - or a hospital, or maybe just a fucking priest to read him his last rites. He wanted to reach for his phone, but couldn’t get his shaking hands to relinquish their death grip on his shirt. He tried to call for help, or just scream wordlessly until his lungs gave out. But all that came from his throat was a pitiful whine.

_ This is it _ , a small corner of his mind thought.  _ I’m dying. I’m going to die alone in this bed, and nobody’s going to give a shite. _ Nobody would even think to check on him until the stink of rot set in, a few days from now. Nobody would come to his funeral. The vultures who descended on his few belongings might take his PC, maybe pick through his CDs and vinyls halfheartedly. Forty-five years, and his only mark on the world would be a dumpster of old clothes and empty bottles.

He lay tangled in his sweat-soaked sheets, helpless to do anything but wait for the end to come. Would it hurt? The sharp pains in his chest were frightening, but not the agony he expected. Was this how Jed felt when he died? Or had Lachlan coerced him into taking enough drugs that he’d slipped off quietly? And what about his parents? Had they faced death as he did now - alone, in pain, and petrified? If so, this was no less than he deserved.

Little by little, the tightness in his chest loosened, allowing him to take longer, slower breaths. His hands relinquished their grip on his shirt and flopped limply to his sides while his pulse gradually slowed. Clarity of thought returned with the calm. He wasn’t having a heart attack. He wasn’t dying. He was just going bloody barmy.

Stumbling out of bed, he picked his way blindly through his flat without switching the lights on, heading to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. He’d much rather wet his parched throat with something stronger, but like a pure numpty he’d finished the last of his whisky on Wednesday after the shite show that was his last… ever?... meeting with Belle.

He quickly shoved thoughts of that last conversation aside. He didn’t want to think about her just now. He had enough on his mind right now.

Like nightmares. He hadn’t had one of those in well over a decade, ever since… He tried to think, taking a gulp of water between gasps. Last time he’d had one of these episodes had to have been thirteen years ago, now, shortly after Arianwen was born. Catherine had begged him to go sober for their baby daughter, and he’d checked himself into a two-week alcohol rehab program when she was eight months along. She’d gone into labor shortly after he got back, and by the time their little family had been discharged from the hospital she’d been ready to jump into parenthood with both feet.

She hadn’t counted on being woken up by her newly-sober husband’s night terrors on top of their daughter’s nightly feedings and changings. After those first few months, they were both so frazzled that only consideration for the baby had kept them from having screaming rows every night. The word “divorce” had been thrown around more than once. And when he started spending his evenings “practicing guitar” in the basement with his hand on the bottle more than the fretboard, Catherine said nothing. He was pretty sure she’d just been relieved that she had one less screaming infant to comfort.

Lachlan drained his glass and set it on the counter. The glowing numbers over the stove told him that it was after four in the morning. Payday today, finally. If he could just get through the next twelve hours, he’d have the money to pick up a bottle of whisky and drown out all of the regrets that threatened to overwhelm him.

With an exhausted sigh, he trudged back to bed, collapsing face first into his pillow. He didn’t have to get up for work for a few more hours. Chances were good his jittery nerves wouldn’t let him fall back asleep any time soon, but he could at least rest. 

******

“Lacey Rose French! How many times have I told you to  _ rinse _ your tupperware when you’re done with them?” Belle slammed the lid back on the food container with a gag. “Or at least don’t leave them in your lunch bag for days on end!” she yelled over the music as Lacey turned the volume up on her speakers.

“Yes, mum!” Lacey called from her perch on the couch, where she was painting her toenails. “Anything else you want to lecture me on? Want to make sure I did my homework? Or set me a curfew?”

“I wish I could,” Belle muttered, plunging her arms back into the scalding dishwater. Life would be infinitely easier if she didn’t have to pick her sister up from various bars and pubs more often than not, occasionally having to cover Lacey’s bar tab and add the sum to the running tally of money and favors that Belle was owed. She scrubbed vigorously at her baking sheet, her efforts loosening only the top layer of caked on grime. “And how many times do I have to ask you to use foil or my baking mat if you’re going to make nachos?”

“Oh my god, I get it!”

“Clearly you don’t, or you wouldn’t keep doing it!” With a sigh, she stopped scrubbing. Any more and she’d be scratching the surface of her good baking sheet. Another ten minutes of soaking should loosen more of the crusted-on cheese, sauce and grease.

As she dried her pruned, reddened hands off on a dishtowel, she heard the opening strains of a familiar song. It was a song from one of the CDs Lachlan had played last Saturday. The familiar pang of heartache hadn’t really left her all week, but it sometimes liked to give a give a fresh stab to remind her that it was still there.

_ Spent my days with a woman unkind _

_ Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine _

_ Made up my mind to make a new start _

_ Going to California with an aching in my heart _

It had been one of her favorites off of that album, but now she couldn’t stand to listen to it. “ _ Turn that noise off!” _

“Oh my god, Belle, what the fuck!” Lacey reared up onto her feet, her stance awkward as she tried to keep her still-drying toes separated. “Why are you being such a bitch this week?”

“Seriously? You have to ask?”

“What, is this about last weekend?” She rolled her eyes. “I said I was sorry about that! Brad had an emergency and had to leave. If I’d known your boyfriend was gonna dump you over it, I would’ve sucked it up and called a cab.”

_ You should’ve done that anyway _ , she thought bitterly. “Lachlan wasn’t my boyfriend,” she said, and oh, that shouldn’t have hurt to say as much as it did. They’d had two dates. It wasn’t exactly the end of a long-term relationship. But seeing him, getting to know him and be known by him… it was the one thing she’d had to look forward to. The one thing she did for herself, apart from reading.

“So his name’s Lachlan?” Lacey asked with a sly grin. “Sounds like one of those muscley shirtless guys on those dirty books you keep under your bed. Does he wear a kilt and live in a castle in the highlands?”

“ _ Drop it, _ ” Belle snarled.

Lacey huffed with a scowl. “You know what? You’re being fucking unbearable tonight.” She packed up her pedicure kit (leaving the used cotton balls on the coffee table instead of throwing them away, Belle noticed) and stomped awkwardly off to her room, balancing on her heels to keep her toes apart.

She emerged less than ten minutes later ready to go out: hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing a sleeveless black shirt dress that was unbuttoned low enough to show her lacy violet bra. On her feet were a pair of black strappy heeled sandals.

“I’m going out,” she announced unnecessarily.

“Wearing  _ that _ ?”

Lacey glared at her mutinously, but didn’t answer the question. “ _ As I was saying _ , I’m going out. I can’t be around you right now.” She snagged her purse and strode toward the door. “Don’t wait up. I’ll find a ride.” 

“Lacey--”

_ Slam! _

With another sigh, Belle swept the used cotton balls off the coffee table and into the trash before the acetone could ruin the wood finish. While she was at it, she swiped Lacey’s half-empty glass of soda from where it rested on one of Belle’s paperbacks. The condensation beading on the glass had sunk into the cover; she hoped that in a few hours, the swollen ring would subside. If it didn’t, at least it would match half of the rest of her books.

Turning in a full circle, she considered the apartment. Dishes were soaking in the sink, but the kitchen was otherwise clean. Nearly everything else was either done, or could wait until another day. The only thing she’d been putting off was washing her sheets. They’d stopped smelling like Lachlan days ago, but she hadn’t been able to commit to bringing them downstairs to the laundry. 

Tonight seemed as good a night as any, she reflected as she stripped the bed. Lachlan was clearly done with her if his absence at the library tonight, as well as the lack of calls and texts, was any indication. She still checked her phone every ten minutes or so, but refused to reach out herself. She certainly wasn’t going to be the first to break the silence. If he wanted to ask forgiveness for his unreasonable accusations, she’d be generous enough to hear him out. As far as she was concerned, she had nothing to apologize for. No matter how much part of her wanted to.

******

“Tryin’ to burn holes in her dress, Lach?”

“Huh?” Lachlan tore his eyes from the billiard tables and spun on his barstool to look at his drinking partner. His coworker, Tom, was sixty years old if he was a day, his brown, unstyled mullet and thick mustache liberally peppered with gray. The foreman tended to have the two of them working the same jobs every day, so they’d gotten to chatting here and there. Earlier today, Tom had noticed Lachlan’s shaking hands, and during their lunch break had brought Lachlan to the parking lot, ostensibly to help out with some car trouble. The swig from the flask Tom kept under his passenger seat had fortified Lachlan enough to get through his shift, and as a repayment Lachlan had bought Tom his first round.

“Ye been lookin’ at that hen for the past half hour. I figure either she owes you money, or ye’d like a good look at what’s under that skirt.”

_ That hen _ was Belle as he had never seen her. Apart from the one time he’d seen her in leggings, she always wore pretty, high-necked tops and flaring skirts that fluttered around her thighs. Now she wore a black dress that looked more like a long men’s shirt, unbuttoned far enough that he could see her purple bra. Her eyes, always a startling sky blue, stood out even further in the field of black eyeliner like twin moons in a night sky. She was currently playing pool with some scruffy, greasy-haired man in a leather jacket… and mopping the floor with him, judging by their expressions.

“Just someone I know,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting to see her here.” He signaled the bartender for another whisky.

“So what the fuck are ye sittin’ here with me for, then? Go talk to her!”

The bartender thunked a new glass in front of Lachlan, who nodded in thanks. “Can’t,” he told Tom. “She’s pissed off at me.”

Tom tried to take a swig of his beer and nod sagely at the same time, and wound up spilling down his front. “Yer fault, I take it.”

“Hers.” 

Tom raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Aye, that can happen, I s’pose. Were you an arse about it?”

“Dunno. Prob’ly, knowing me,” he admitted, taking a swallow of his drink with a grimace.

“So go fuckin’ talk to her! Tell her yer sorry, make it sound good, and see if she’ll take you home. Unless you’re lookin’ to spend yer night with me,” he joked, elbowing Lachlan in the ribs.

Lachlan snorted into his glass. “Ugly bastard like you? You’ll have to buy me a few more drinks first.”

“Pretty sure the wife wouldn’t want me takin’ home strays, anyway,” he muttered. “Now go talk to her! She just sunk the eight ball. Now’s yer chance.”

He sat, considered. He was still pissed off at her. Not about kicking him out of the apartment - not anymore. It was annoying, but it wasn’t like he was entitled to spend the night there whether she wanted it or not. But the more he thought about it, the more it frustrated him that she volunteered so little about herself. Oh, sure, he knew about books she liked, and her love of tea and baked goods, but getting anything personal out of her was like pulling teeth. Maybe he was being a bit hypocritical - he hadn’t exactly spilled his guts to her - but hadn’t he earned  _ something _ ? 

But he missed her, damn it. Not just because she got him out of the apartment, and not just for the sex. Her bright smiles, her flirty giggles, the rapt look on her face when she listened to him, the faraway look in her eyes when she talked about something she cared about - all those little things filled a hole in him he hadn’t even realized was there. This past week was the most lonely and miserable he’d felt since coming back to Scotland. Wouldn’t it be worth it to swallow his pride just this once if it meant fixing things between them?

It would, he decided. But only if she met him halfway. He wasn’t going to grovel when 

Swallowing the last of his drink to fortify him, Lachlan wove through the tables to get to Belle. She was currently bent over the table, re-racking the balls, and fuck, he could see her lacy purple knickers where her dress rode up.

“Any other takers?” she called as she stuffed her winnings from the last game into her bra. Lachlan cleared his throat. Belle glanced over her shoulder at him, then continued what she was doing. “Yeah?”

“Belle.”

“Nope.”

He blinked, stricken. Of all the reactions he might have expected, that definitely wasn’t one of them. Anger, certainly. The silent treatment, maybe. But outright dismissal? “Belle, can we please just talk?”

“Sorry, buddy, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” Done racking up the balls, she chalked up a cue. “If you want, you can call--”

“I don’t want to call you later! I want to talk now!” he snapped. Belle turned to face him, eyes narrowed. Shite, how was he already cocking this up? Maybe he shouldn’t have had that last drink or two. “Please, Belle, I don’t want to fight,” he entreated. “I’m sorry I accused you of cheating on your roommate with me.” He reached out and laid a hand uncertainly on her shoulder.

She shrugged it off impatiently. “My  _ roommate _ . Right.” 

If anything, she looked even angrier now. This wasn’t going well at all. “Belle - I - you’ve got to see things from my perspective,” he pleaded, trying and failing to keep the frustration out of his voice. “You won’t tell me anything about him, except that he treats you like shite. He calls you in the middle of the night, right when you were about to--” He cut himself off. She probably wouldn’t appreciate him announcing to the entire bar that she’d been about to ride his cock. “And you just - just throw me out like yesterday’s trash. Can you really fucking blame me for jumping to conclusions?”

Belle stared at him for a long moment, lips pursed. He didn’t know if it was just his imagination, or an effect of the thick black eyeliner she wore, but the affection he’d missed so much in her eyes was gone. He might as well have been a stranger. Worse - he’d seen her greet strangers at the library with more warmth. He fumbled nervously with his bracelet.

“Well… Lachlan…” She paused, as though waiting for something. Nothing happened, and she continued. “Maybe I was being kind of a bitch. Hell, I was probably being a huge bitch, knowing me.”

“I wouldn’t say--”

“I would,” she interrupted. She leaned on her pool cue, cocking one hip out. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’d rather have you chop my leg off and beat me with it than fuck my  _ roommate _ .” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “She and I barely put up with each other.” 

“So I gathered.” He rubbed at his face in an effort to clear his head. Something just felt off about this - something he couldn’t put his finger on. “Belle, I don’t get it. I know talking about your roommate is off-limits - god knows why - but I don’t understand why you put yourself out for someone you seem to hate.”

Lachlan must be drunker than he thought, because for a brief second he thought he saw a flash of hurt on her face. “Who knows why the fuck I do anything,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” After a quick glance around the room, she laid her pool cue back on the table. “Looks like nobody else has the balls to play me tonight. Why don’t you buy me a drink, and I’ll tell you a bit about the  _ roommate _ .”

“I… yeah. That’d be great.” Unable to believe his luck, he gestured for her to lead the way to the bar. 

******

Belle flipped over in bed for what was quite possibly the fiftieth time in the past hour. Between working, cooking, cleaning, and her argument with Lacey, she was utterly exhausted and ready to sleep. But she just couldn’t turn her brain off long enough to drift off.

If Lacey needed a ride home, she would have called or texted by now. The bars were all closed by this point. Objectively, Belle knew that she was probably in bed with one of the guys she was always drinking with. What were their names again? Brian, Tyler and Brad? That sounded right. But she’d never texted to say she wasn’t coming home.

Images played through her head like a silent movie. Opening credits roll, and the title screen appears:  _ Something Happened to Lacey and It’s All Her Sister’s Fault  _ starring Belle and Lacey French. Lacey dead in a ditch somewhere, or arrested and deported for drunk driving. Lacey going home with the wrong guy, or choking on her vomit in a dark alley. A thousand scenarios played through Belle’s head, each worse than the last, and in every one, the last thing Lacey ever heard from her sister was a complaint about a baking sheet and a criticism of an outfit. Not “I love you.” Not “stay safe,” or even “I’ll see you when you get home.” Her last words to Lacey would be, “wearing  _ that?” _

Enough. She couldn’t just lie in bed, desperately hoping for sleep, for another minute. Tomorrow… or rather, today, because it was after three in the morning… was Saturday, the library’s busiest day. In a perfect world, she’d be catching up on some much-needed sleep. But that clearly wasn’t in the cards tonight. The part of her that wasn’t currently worried sick about her twin felt a twinge of resentment. Even when she had the night off from nursing her sister through drunkenness and the subsequent hangover, her night still wasn’t her own. Not really.

Pacing the living room, Belle cast about for something productive to do. The kitchen was clean, the floors freshly swept and mopped, laundry done, furniture dusted. She resisted the temptation to peek into Lacey’s room with an effort; the last time she’d tried to do her sister a favor by folding her laundry and organizing her mail, Lacey had nearly taken her head off. 

There had to be  _ something _ to do. She was kneeling down in the kitchen to see if her pots and pans needed to be reorganized, when she noticed that the grout was looking a teensy bit gray. It hadn’t had a proper scrubbing in… a month, probably. Perfect.

The cold tile on her hands and knees, the smell of the cleaning product, the rhythm of the brush bristles against the grout - they didn’t soothe her, exactly, so much as give her a physical focus. Her thoughts were too scattered to read, but this was mindless while still demanding her attention. She gnawed at a bit of dead skin on her lower lip, teeth clicking together in time with the scrub brush.

By the time she finished scrubbing, rinsing and wiping the tile, the grout in between looked a shade or two lighter. She nodded in satisfaction, tugging at the last piece of dead skin with her teeth. She hissed as it came free, pulling a strip of live skin with it. Tonguing the wound determined that it wasn’t bleeding. 

She really needed to break this habit.

At least her little chore had done its trick. She was so exhausted she didn’t think she could stay awake another five minutes. Just in time, too - the first gray of pre-dawn was peeking through the windows. Collapsing into bed, Belle sent a single text out before succumbing to sleep.

_ Please just let me know you’re okay. _

******

Lachlan cracked his eye to the morning sunlight, immediately squeezing it shut with a hiss when the light lanced through his brain. His stomach roiled with nausea. He swallowed hard to quell the urge to vomit. Not a great start to the day. It never was.

At least today he wouldn’t be suffering alone. Last night Belle had matched him drink for drink, only leaving the bar long enough to queue up a few songs on the jukebox. That had surprised him; he’d been under the impression that she rarely drank, if at all. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He’d been trying - okay, not very hard, but a bit - to get his drinking under control because he thought it was what she wanted. Now he was seeing this whole different side of her. It was… it was something to think about.

Later. For now, he had a naked woman in his bed, and this time he intended to enjoy waking up next to her this time, even if his head was about to split apart. Belle hadn’t been remotely interested in cuddling after sex last night, instead preferring to roll over to sleep. Maybe she’d be in the mood now. 

Hopefully she wouldn’t mind taking a rain check on kissing. His mouth tasted like a distillery, and he doubted hers was much better.

A quick grope around the bed revealed only empty sheets, devoid of any warmth other than his own. His eyes snapped open, and he bit back a pained groan as the sunlight made his head throb. 

Belle was nowhere in sight. The only trace of her was the slight fruity scent of her shampoo clinging to his pillow. Frowning, he gingerly sat up, breathing hard against the nausea that threatened to bubble over. Gathering what little strength he had, he heaved himself to his feet and staggered out to the living room. 

“You’ve got to be fucking shitting me!”

Rage churned unpleasantly with the queasiness in his stomach, curdling together into a knot. She fucking left! After he’d swallowed his pride and practically begged her to talk to him - for the second time! - and spent the night buying her drinks and listening to her vent about her overbearing roommate. After letting her crash here so she didn’t have to deal with said roommate, and having sex that felt impersonal and perfunctory compared to last Saturday. She had the nerve to just leave without so much as a note or a text?

Fuck that. She might not want to have a conversation with him, but she was getting just that, whether she liked it or not. He yanked on last night’s clothes, too pissed off to root around his laundry basket for a clean outfit. He just barely had the presence of mind to remember his sunglasses as he stomped out his apartment door. Thankfully the day was relatively overcast.

Was this some sort of game to her? What was the point? Did she get some sort of rush out of this? Did it give her an ego boost to find some useless waste, convince him that he mattered, make him fall for her, and cast him aside? Well, she was about to find that he wouldn’t be ignored so easily.

Sheer indignation and force of will carried him down the street toward the library. Teeth gritted against the dull throbbing in his head, he stormed toward the circulation desk, where Belle was helping a line of patrons waiting to check out books. He cut to the front of the line without so much as glancing as anyone else.

“Lachlan, what--”

“We need tae talk,” he snarled. “ _ Now _ .”

Her eyebrows rose, unimpressed. “Okay, first of all, don’t talk to me like that. You may be angry with me, but I don’t deserve to be snapped at.” She gestured behind him with a sweeping hand. “Second, as you can see, I’m busy at the moment. We can talk later.”

“No, fuck that! We’re gonnae have this oot now.” Damn it, he hated what anger did to his accent. Now, of all times, he wanted to make sure he was damn well understood. He gestured behind him to the same gawkers who were silently watching the two of them. “So unless ye wannae give these tossers a show, I suggest ye find someplace private we can talk.”

The silence loomed between them as they stared at each other, her with her jaw set, him with his lips pressed in a thin line. “Fine,” she bit out. Then she called over her shoulder. “Evelyn?”

The head librarian, Mrs. Campbell, emerged from her office. “Yes, dear?” she asked in a kinder voice than he’d ever heard from the stern woman. 

Belle’s fiery blue eyes never left his. “I need to take my lunch break a little early. Can you take over for a bit?”

Her lips puckered a bit, but she nodded. “Just this once,” she allowed.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Circling around the desk, she breezed right past Lachlan, refusing to look back to make sure he followed. Even with those impossibly high heels, she still managed to keep a pace so brisk he nearly had to trot to keep up.

She led him out of the building and around a corner, to a secluded stone bench. She perched on one end, slipping a shoe off to rub the arch of her foot. “Well?” She gestured impatiently to the other end of the bench. “You interrupt me at work when you can see I’m busy. You snap at me and make rude demands, and then you insult my patrons right in front of their faces. Now I’m giving up my lunch break to talk, just like you wanted. So talk.”

“Oh, don’t do that. Don’t act like I’m the arsehole here,” he snapped.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to that.” Her glare said that she knew  _ exactly _ how she wanted to react, but chose not to. “You’ve been angry with me all week. What makes today so special?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” Her confused look only set him off more. “ _ Last night _ ,” he clarified.

“‘Last night?’” she echoed. “Lachlan, I was home all night. I didn’t call, or text, or do anything more interesting than clean my apartment.”

“Bollocks! You were at the bar last night, playing pool.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. “Don’t bother denying it. I saw you. We talked. We slept together. So unless you’ve got a doppelgänger with the exact same accent, it was you.”

Belle paled. Without a word, she rummaged through her purse until she found her phone, and made a call. Her foot tapped impatiently while it rang. Once it went to voicemail, she spoke. He’d never heard her sound so angry. “Lacey Rose French, I know you’re there. You will video call me in the next five minutes or so help me, I will kick you out and find a roommate who actually pays rent.” Then she hung up.

“Belle, what--” 

She silenced him with a raised hand. “This is probably partially my fault,” she admitted quietly. “I thought, maybe if you never met her, things would be different this time.” 

“Met who? Your roommate?” Christ, his head was not up for these hints and riddles. “I don’t under--”

Her buzzing phone interrupted him. Belle answered it, but before she could say anything, a familiar voice came through the speaker. “God, Belle, what now? Can’t a girl get some shut-eye? I had a late night.”

“Apparently.” She turned the phone toward Lachlan. “Look familiar?” she asked.

Lachlan was about to tell her that she was being utterly ridiculous, when he did a double-take. The ground seemed to fall out from under his feet, and he sank weakly to the bench. There, on the screen of the phone in Belle’s hand, was… Belle.

There were subtle differences, he saw now. Differences he’d been too drunk to look for. Hadn’t even known to look for, really. The woman on the phone - Lacey? - wore her hair straight where Belle’s was curled, and wore more eye makeup. Her cheekbones and chin were sharper, but apart from that, they were identical. The same blue eyes, the same pale skin and cupid’s bow mouth.

The woman in the phone winced. “Ah, fuck. This isn’t--”

Belle turned the phone back around. “I’ll deal with you when I get home,” she said ominously, ending the call.

The silence loomed between them. Lachlan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped between them. He cast his mind back over the past few weeks, the morning’s revelation shining light on so much that had baffled him. Her roommate was her sister. Not a boyfriend, or a fuck-buddy. That was why she dropped everything to pick Lacey up. He could understand that. He’d never done the same for Jed - one had to be sober to be a designated driver, and Lachlan could count his sober nights in Manchester on two hands - but he understood wanting to do anything for family. 

But things were different between Belle and her sister than they’d been for him and Jed, he thought with a grimace. Lachlan had idolized his older brother, and Jed had taken Lachlan under his wing, never letting him feel left out even when his older friends didn’t want to hang out with the little kid. Even with three years separating them, they’d been thick as thieves all their lives. But listening to the way Belle and Lacey talked about each other, they could hardly stand to be in the same room. 

“I didn’t know you had a twin,” he finally said stupidly.

“That was the idea,” came her muffled reply. He looked over her and saw her face buried in her hands. After a moment she lowered them. For the first time that morning, he really looked at her. Without the lens of rage clouding his vision, he finally noticed just how tired she looked. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin lacked its usual luster. Her face was completely blank, her eyes dull and lifeless. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

Lachlan’s brow lowered in confusion. “For what?”

“Everything.” She sighed, her shoulders slumping on the exhale. “For hiding Lacey from you, and getting angry when you called me on it. For being a jerk when you just wanted an explanation.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “For leading you on.”

His heart stuttered to a halt. She couldn’t be saying what he thought. They were just starting to figure things out. “What are you saying?” he asked.

“I can’t…” She gestured vaguely. “...do  _ this. _ Be what you want. Be like…” She swallowed, sniffed, chewed hard on her lower lip. “I just don’t have it in me.”

“Belle, no.  _ You’re _ what I want.” He reached a hand out to her. She flinched away from him, hugging her arms around her stomach like she’d been kicked. His hand flopped down between them. 

He didn’t know what to do; several rash impulses warred within him. He wanted to kiss her until she got over whatever the hell was bothering her. He wanted to shake and snarl at her for keeping secrets and letting this mess pile up between them. He wanted to beat the ever-loving shite out of himself for not being more patient. He wanted to chew Lacey out for… fuck it, for everything. 

And under all that, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in a dark room and nurse his hangover with some of the hair of the dog that bit him.

Dimly he recognized that all of those were fucking awful ideas - immediate gratifications that solved nothing. Story of his life, that.

With a glance at her phone, Belle stood up and dusted off the back of her skirt. “Break’s over. I need to go,” she mumbled. 

He didn’t know what to do. So he let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I hate, like, 60% of this chapter. Hate it. I apparently don't enjoy writing Idiot Angst where the characters are so mired in their own problems that they can't work things out. But I need to get through the Idiot Angst so I can get to the Productive Angst, and then move to the Fluffy Angst, and then the Angsty Fluff, and then just Fluff and a happy ending. I think we're roughly halfway through the Idiot Angst now. So if my writing comes off as sort of... abrupt and stilted, and downright lazy in places... it's because I'm struggling. Maybe I'll go back and revise some other time.
> 
> I did enjoy writing panic and anxiety attacks, though.


	10. I've Really Been on a Bender and It Shows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, this chapter. This chapter did NOT want to get written. I wound up having to completely scrap my original plans - plans I've had since I first thought up this story - and just make up a completely new game plan. Oh well.

“Thought I might find you here.”

Lachlan stiffened in the barstool where he sat slumped over an empty glass. For a moment he heard that familiar Australian accent, and his heart leapt. But a quick glance up dispelled the notion that Belle had come looking for him. The straight hair, the eyeliner, and the tiny black dress told him all he needed to know. This was Lacey.

"Piss off.”

Instead of leaving, she settled into the stool next to him. “I deserve that,” she sighed. “Look, can I just say one thing? Just one thing, and then I’ll fuck off and you’ll never have to hear from me again.” 

The bartender refilled his glass with well whisky, and he took a gulp. “Make it quick.”

Lacey took a sip of her own drink - a cosmo - and winced. “Look - about last night.” Instead of continuing, she started gnawing on a thumbnail. 

Lachlan waited, but she showed no signs of continuing. “You’ve got a weird definition of ‘quick,’” he observed snidely.

“I know, I know! I’m just… I’m working up to it.” She sucked in a deep breath, held it for a few minutes, and let it out in a whoosh. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about last night.” She swallowed hard, and her voice shook a bit. “It was really fucked up of me to do that. I’ve spent all day just feeling… disgusted, and… ashamed. Of myself.”

Lachlan had been doing a lot of thinking today, and a few things had clicked into place. “I’m surprised,” he admitted. “I’ve been thinking back to a few things Belle said. She made it sound like you’ve done this before.”

“When I was younger, yeah,” she agreed. “I stole a few boyfriends from her. But - but that’s not what I was talking about.”

“What, then?”

“Fuck, you’re not making this easy on me.” She quickly gulped down the rest of her drink and signalled the bartender for another. “I… Last night, when you thought I was Belle, I tried to tell you I wasn’t her. But then you called me her  _ roommate _ , and said she hated me, and I just got so mad! So I figured, why not pretend to be her for a few hours, shit-talk her for a while, and then drop the bomb on you at the end of the night that Princess Belle isn’t as perfect as you thought.”

“That’s not what happened,” Lachlan said unnecessarily. If only things had gone down that way last night.

She nodded. “Because I’m a fucking idiot. I had way too much to drink, and I didn’t want to go home and start another row with Belle. So when you invited me back to your place, and started putting the moves on me, I should’ve said something. But I didn’t.”

“You wanted to get back at Belle.”

“No!” That thumbnail was back in her mouth, her teeth clicking together with each bite. He wondered if she and Belle were aware that they both tended to fidget with their mouths when they were upset. “I mean, I don’t think so. God, I dunno, I was just drunk, and horny, and I wasn’t fucking thinking. And you thought I was Belle, and I took advantage of that. Of you.”

_ That’s _ what this was about? The humorless laugh burst from his lips before he could stop it. The whole situation was just ludicrous. “You go out of your way to hurt your sister and wind up doing even more damage than you planned, and you’re worried about  _ my _ feelings?”

“It’s not like she--”

He cut her off with a sharp gesture. “No,” he snarled. “I don’t give a flying fuck who’s right or wrong anymore. I don’t care if you stole her boyfriends, or she treats you like a child - if the shite you spouted last night was even true. You’re  _ sisters _ .” He took another swallow of his drink to clear his head. Didn’t work. Obviously. “You’re fucking sisters! How can you treat each other like that? How do you  _ live _ like that?” he demanded. “Christ. I could never--”

He bit back the rest of that sentence with a pained grimace.  _ I could never do something like that to my brother. _ And it was true. They’d had their fair share of rows in Manchester - especially in the earlier days when it was just two teenage boys struggling to support themselves - but things had never gotten as petty as they were with Belle and Lacey. If one brother had his eye on a bird, the other backed off. If they had an issue with each other, they’d either talk it out or punch it out - whichever got results quicker. He couldn’t imagine hating Jed so much that he set out to emotionally destroy him.

But he’d be a massive hypocrite if he said so. What he’d done was so much worse. He hadn’t taken his brother’s girlfriend. He’d taken Jed’s  _ life _ . There was no comparison. And that took the indignant wind right out of his sails.

“Just… piss off,” he repeated. 

Lacey stared into her drink as though the lurid pink cocktail held the secrets of the universe. She must have reached some sort of conclusion, because she polished off her drink in one gulp before abandoning her stool to start up a game at the pool tables. 

Lachlan did his best to tune out the sound of her voice as he started on his next drink. Lacey acted nothing like her sister, but she looked and sounded so much like Belle that it made his heart ache and anger churn in his gut. Why couldn’t Belle just have talked to him? This entire mess could have been avoided if he’d known that he could potentially run into her identical damn twin. She didn’t seem to blame Lachlan for what had gone down last night. Still, he resented that it had happened at all when it could have been so easily avoided.

So Lacey had stolen a few boyfriends. So fucking what? Did Belle really think that he’d willingly leave her for her twin? Or even just fuck around with her? Of course he wouldn’t! So why did she think so little of him? He knew he didn’t exactly make a great impression in his current state. He was a drunk. Uneducated. Aging more every day. No family. Friends all driven off either by past deeds, or his own bullshit. A washed-up, talentless hack who rode his brother’s coattails to fame, and wasn’t even smart enough to keep him alive. A… a...

Where had he been going with this? He was sure he’d had some sort of point to make.

Whatever. He’d been trying to do better for Belle. Not just because it was what she wanted, but because doing better felt  _ good _ when she was there to witness it. He probably wouldn’t have tried half so hard to find a job without her there to cheer him on. And when he’d been hired, her pride in him had left a warm glow in his chest that booze could never compete with. 

Now, things between him and Belle were well and truly buggered, so what was the point of trying to do better?. She wouldn’t give a damn whether he got his drinking under control or hit the bottle as hard as he had in his wilder Manchester days. Hell, she wouldn’t even care if he relapsed and picked up his old addictions from his twenties. Not that there was any danger of that. He’d sworn off the stuff after Jed’s death. Just the thought of using again filled him with a self-loathing that made him struggle to breathe. To distract himself from that, he ordered himself another drink.

An undetermined amount of time (and drinks) later, he felt something wet on his cheek. What was on his face? He tried to focus. The room spun around him, the neon lights of beer adverts and the jukebox birling about him like a carousel from hell. Gradually he realized that he was slumped on the bar, his cheek resting in a puddle of whisky. He must’ve spilled it. Pity, that - waste of perfectly good shite booze.

He flagged down the bartender. “One more,” he mumbled.

“I don’t think so, mate. I’m cutting you off.” The bartender slid Lachlan’s glass away before his fumbling fingers could reach for it.

“Oh, c’mon, friend. One more f’r th’ road, eh?” Lachlan wheedled.

“No can do. I should’ve cut you off three drinks ago,” the prick said, and what the fuck did he know? Lachlan was fine. Perfectly fine. Everything was fucking… fucking  _ peachy _ . 

“Fuck it, then. I’ll jus… jus’ go home. Anywhere’s better’n this dump.” He stood up - or tried to, anyway, but his stool reached out and snagged his foot, sending the both of them clattering to the ground. With a muffled curse he struggled to his feet, kicking the four-legged bastard in retaliation. Despite the floor pitching and heaving under him, he managed to make a smooth, dignified exit.

It was pissing rain out, and he shivered in his thin T-shirt, wishing he hadn’t left his denim jacket at home. He was about to step out from the bar’s protective awning when a hand snagged the back of his shirt.

“Lachlan, hang on.” 

Lachlan turned at the sound of that familiar voice, a silly grin on his face. The ground must be slippery, because he had to reach out to steady himself against the brick wall. And there she was, under the awning next to him, shining brown hair frizzy and black eyeliner running from the rain. “Belle.”

The brunette shot him a thoroughly unimpressed look, leaning heavily against the building. “Guess again.”

Oh. “Lacey. Though’ I told ye to piss off.”

“What, so you own th’ sidewalk now?” she slurred, looking him up and down. “Yer ‘s drunk ‘s I am. I’ve got a ride comin’. We can give you a lift.”

The thought of getting into a car with her turned his stomach. Something he couldn’t afford with the world spinning the way it was. “Nah, fuck it. I can go m’self.”

Lacey took a step toward him and jabbed a finger at his chest. It wobbled unsteadily. “Don’t be a fuckin’ prat. You knocked over a whole table’a drinks comin’ out here.”

He had? He glanced through the window to check. A group of people stood around a toppled table, wiping their clothes with bar napkins and shooting him dirty looks. The glasses and puddles of booze were being cleaned up by an exasperated waitress.

Well… shit. Maybe he’d had a few more than he’d thought. Still. “I can go m’self,” he repeated.

“Lachlan, please get in the car.”

The voice sounded like Lacey, but Lacey’s lips weren’t moving. Belatedly, he realized that a car was idling behind him. He couldn’t see the driver through the downpour, but he recognized the little blue coup. Belle.

He shook his head, immediately regretting it when the ground pitched under his feet. “‘S no’ far. I’ll walk.”

Belle leaned her head out the driver’s side window, her sleep-fluffed curls immediately flattening in the pouring rain. “I’m not asking. Get. In. The.  _ Car. _ ” Her voice had a steely note to it that he’d never heard before. 

Before he knew it, he was following Lacey to the car. She took the back seat and pulled the passenger seat back, forcing him to sit in the front next to Belle. He stepped into the car, ducking his head carefully.

“Watch your--”

_ Thunk. _ Dazed, Lachlan rubbed at his head. 

Belle sighed. “Seat belts,” she said quietly. Lachlan fumbled with his. Judging by the grumbling coming from the back seat, Lacey wasn’t having an easier time of it. Finally, after an eternity, they both managed to click them into place, and Belle started driving.

******

Belle studiously avoided looking at Lachlan - not hard to do when she had to keep her eyes on the road. When asked, he’d given her his address. She knew the place; it was a run-down old apartment building just two minutes’ drive from the pub. 

She chewed at some chapped skin on her lower lip. She had absolutely no right to the flash of jealousy in her heart. They’d been on two dates, and had never talked about where - if anywhere - this was going. They weren’t exclusive. She’d taken a gamble in sleeping with Lachlan so soon, and it hadn’t paid off. It wasn’t his fault she’d gone and caught feelings.

Grudgingly, she could admit that Lachlan and Lacey simply made more sense than Lachlan and Belle. Lachlan had traveled the world and experienced things Belle could hardly dream of. He was experienced, charismatic, and artistic, just like Lacey could be - had been, once. They both loved music, and even had similar taste. Even taking the drinking out of the equation, Lacey had far more in common with him than Belle could ever hope to. How could Belle, with her books and her quiet, boring life, ever hope to compete?

But that didn’t mean she had to drive them home from dates, if that’s what this was. She would bring Lachlan home this one time. After tonight, he was on his own.

She pulled into the poorly-lit parking lot and parked in front of the entrance. “Can you take it from here?” she asked, still keeping her eyes straight ahead.

“Aye.” He opened the door and attempted to climb out without releasing his seat belt. After watching him struggle for a few moments, she pressed the button. He climbed out of the car and promptly staggered into the car next to them.

With a long-suffering sigh, Belle undid her own seatbelt and got out of the car, pocketing the keys. “Stay here,” she ordered her sister. A noncommittal grunt was her only reply.

With a feeling of deja vu, Belle guided Lachlan into his apartment building. He was much drunker than last time, so she wrapped his arm around her shoulders and half-dragged him into the building. Lachlan, for his part, did his best to help, but his legs didn’t seem to want to cooperate, tangling up under them and tripping them both.

The Out of Order sign on the elevator was an appropriate end to a perfectly horrible week. “Of course,” she grumbled. Well, there was nothing to be done. She couldn’t just leave him down here, and the idea of having him and Lacey together in her apartment made her die a little inside. Not that she thought either of them was in any shape to have sex, but still. She didn’t know if they were a couple or just friends with benefits, and she didn’t care to find out.

Suppressing an aggrieved groan, she squared her shoulders and started for the stairs. Like flipping a switch, her brain went into caretaker mode. “What floor do you live on, sweetie?”  _ Please don’t say the top floor, _ she thought desperately.

“Fourth floor,” he mumbled.

“Oh thank god,” she muttered.

Getting him up those three flights of stairs was an exercise in patience - to say nothing of the actual physical exercise of hauling a fully-grown man’s dead weight up so many steps. By the time they reached the fourth floor landing, her breathing was labored and her muscles burned. Finally, she got him to his door - apartment 413. He fumbled with his key, unable to line it up with the lock. Belle snagged the key from his clumsy fingers and quickly got the door open. The apartment was dark, but she discovered a light switch with a quick feel along the wall.

Flicking the switch on flooded the room with light. Well, maybe “flooded” was too strong a word. The overhead light had four bulb fixtures. Two were empty, and one of the remaining bulbs flickered ominously, threatening to go out any minute. What illumination they provided was sickly and yellow, which did nothing to brighten the room. The wall-to-wall carpet was dingy, matted and stained, and Belle winced to think of what substances had been ground into the fibers over the years. The walls clearly hadn’t been scrubbed in decades, and suffered the ochre staining of decades of cigarette smoke. The room was roughly the size of a shoebox, and was dominated by what surely must be the world’s lumpiest couch. Boxes of CDs and records took up what little space was left. The kitchen counters and table were clean enough - more likely from disuse than any particular urge for tidiness from the flat’s one resident.

Jesus. No wonder he’d been so against coming home two weeks ago. She’d be absolutely miserable if this was the only place she could call home.

Stomping ruthlessly down on the part of her that cried out to  _ change it, fix it, make it better, _ she hauled Lachlan through an open door that she hoped was the bedroom, flicking on another light switch.

She was right - this was the bedroom. The same hideous, filthy carpet covered the floor here. The walls had probably been a lovely shade of blue once, but the nicotine stains transformed them to a drab olive green. The drawn shades were similarly stained, and covered in a thick layer of dust. Obviously the landlord of this building hadn’t bothered to have more than a cursory cleaning done before Lachlan moved in.

Belle deposited a barely responsive Lachlan on his unmade bed and wrestled his shoes and socks off. His jeans stayed on; while she was sure that sleeping in his clothes wouldn’t be comfortable, she wasn’t about to strip him. She left him long enough to fetch a glass of tap water from the kitchen, and managed to hunt down a bottle of pain pills. She left them both on his nightstand for him to find in the morning, wondering if he’d even remember how he’d gotten home.

Once she arranged Lachlan on his side, she gave in to the urge to run her fingers through his hair. He nuzzled into her hand, her name falling from his lips in a contented sigh. Her name. Not Lacey’s.  _ Hers. _ And earlier today, he’d said that she -  _ Belle _ \- was what he wanted. Could he really mean it? Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, and she blinked against the sting of tears in her eyes as she backed out of the room.  _ Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. _

Closing the bedroom door behind her, she collapsed onto the couch, resting her face in her hands. Somehow, impossibly, the seat was even less comfortable than it looked. Ignoring the spring that dug painfully into her thigh, she gave herself a moment to breathe.

God, she really was an _ idiot _ . She knew what alcoholism did to people. She’d seen it firsthand. So why, then, did she have to go and fall for an alcoholic? 

Maybe because Lachlan’s drinking just seemed… different than she was used to. He didn’t revel in drunkenness the way Lacey sometimes did. Her sister treated a night at the bar the way others treated a date night: dressing to the nines and planning her entire night around which bar would most likely have a few rubes for her to hustle at the pool table. The creative flair that she’d once poured into painting and sculpting was now funneled into easy money and cheap thrills.

Nor did he drown himself in booze at all hours of the day the way her father did. Moe French had become a shell of a man after his wife died, and he drank to fill that hollow spot inside him. Whiskey in his morning coffee. Beers in a cooler in his car for his lunch break and the drive home. And then steady drinking - either at home or at the bar, depending on how much money the flower shop made that week - until Belle helped him stagger into bed. 

Lachlan drank when he was upset… which seemed to be more nights than not. He drank to forget, or to escape. He was running from something, some regret that had kept him away from Scotland until now. Belle just didn’t know what it was.

She couldn’t help with that, but she could help him quit drinking, if that was what he wanted. He’d mentioned wanting to get his life together once. And on their second date, the one that had ended so disastrously, he didn’t seem to begrudge the lack of alcohol. Maybe he wanted to quit, and just needed help.

Or maybe that was wishful thinking. If she stayed, and he had no intentions of getting his drinking under control, she’d just be consigning herself to endless nights like this until she either left him, or watched him drink himself to an early grave. She couldn’t open herself to that level of hurt again. She wouldn’t.

This was all a moot point, of course, until she could figure out what was going on between him and her sister. If he’d only slept with Lacey because he thought she was Belle, maybe there was hope for them. But if he was like every other guy she’d dated, and chose Lacey… well, at least that particular brand of heartbreak was a familiar one.

She sighed, and stood up. She had a lot to think about, and a drunk sister to take care of. Best to get home quickly and salvage a few hours of sleep.

Making her way down the stairs and out the building was much quicker than struggling her way up, and soon she was unlocking her car. The moment she opened the door, the acrid stench of citrus, booze and vomit assailed her nose.

“Lacey, you didn’t,” she moaned.

“‘m sorry. Didn’ mean to,” her twin slurred.

Belle swallowed hard against a gag. Long years of nursing a drunk father, and later a drunk sister, had mostly inured her to the smell of vomit, but it still turned her stomach.

She took mental stock. It was a little after three in the morning. She could be home in under ten minutes. Dragging Lacey up to the apartment, getting her in the shower, and settling her into bed with water and pills would take another forty-five, minimum. Depending on the contents of her sister’s stomach, Belle could probably get the car upholstery scrubbed and sprinkled with baking soda in roughly an hour. She’d need to be up early to vacuum the baking soda up before work. At this point, the few minutes of sleep wouldn’t even be worth the time spent lying in bed, waiting to nod off. Staying up would be easier.

Belle leaned heavily against the car as a wave of exhaustion hit her. The urge to either hit something or burst into frustrated tears was nearly overwhelming. What was  _ wrong _ with her? Nights like this were common when she was in college, when Lacey had reached drinking age and Belle was expected to take care of both drunks in the household. Sure, it hadn’t been easy, but she’d carried on for years without feeling half as worn out and frayed at the edges as she did tonight. 

She took a deep breath, held it, released it. Again. Then another. There would be time for frustration later. She could be tired later. For now, she was needed. Digging her teeth hard into her lower lip to stave off the tears that seemed to constantly threaten lately, she climbed into the car and drove home.

******

Lachlan plopped himself down in his computer chair and booted up his desktop, preparing for his Tuesday video call with Arianwen. The light from the monitor irritated his pounding headache. A few more swallows of whisky should take care of that, and quell the nausea and shaking hands besides. 

Arianwen’s face popped up on the screen, and he almost dropped his half-full glass in his haste to hide it. She frowned. “Oh. Um… hi, Lachlan.”

Shit. She’d seen. Well, if he pretended it didn’t happen, maybe she’d get the hint and do the same. “Hey there, sweetheart. How’ve you been?”

“Alright, I guess. What about you? Are you okay?” 

Lachlan didn’t miss the worried look in his daughter’s eyes. He simply ignored it. “Of course. Just a bit tired from work, is all.”

“Oh. Okay.” She didn’t look at all convinced, but she didn’t press the matter. “So did you get to talk to your friend? The librarian?”

As always, Arianwen had a knack for hitting the nail right on the head. He’d woken up yesterday morning with a hangover, a bump on his head, and no memory of how he’d gotten home. The glass of water and bottle of painkillers on his nightstand had been all the clue he’d needed. Only one person cared about him to not only ensure he got home safely, but also secure his comfort. Belle.

The fact that she  _ did _ care enough to help him was heartening. Her response to his thank you text was not. When he expressed appreciation for her care of him, she’d sent a simple “you’re welcome” in response. And since he couldn’t remember a single detail of Sunday night after a certain point, he had no idea where her headspace was. He didn’t push for more.

Trying to understand what the hell was going through Belle’s head was an exercise in frustration. Her motives were a mystery to be uncovered. Unfortunately, he’d never had the patience for intrigue; he was the sort of guy who would rather just lay things on the table and have it out. At least, when he wasn’t trying to avoid his problems altogether. 

For probably the hundredth time in the past week, he felt a flare of resentment that she wouldn’t just  _ talk _ to him. How fucking hard could it be? “Hey, Lachlan, my sister’s just as big a drunk as you are, and she likes to steal my boyfriends. I need to pick her up from the bar real quick. Oh, by the way, she looks just like me, so do me a favor and try not to fuck her, okay?” Easy. 

He rubbed his face tiredly. “That’s… complicated. Not really something I’m up for talking about.” Reflexively, he took a swallow of his drink.  _ Fuck. _ He hadn’t meant to do that on camera. He quickly changed the subject before Arianwen could mention it. “So what’s new with you?”

“Well… my band has started practicing more. My school is thinking of hiring us to play for the homecoming dance in September.”

“That’s great!” He leaned forward, tossing the hair from his eyes. “Do you play cover songs, or do you have any original songs?”

“Mostly we do covers. I’ve written a few songs, and our singer thinks we should play them.”

“That’s incredible, sweetheart!” He knew so very little about Arianwen, and every time he spoke with her he could see the best parts of Catherine - her patience, her insight, her brains - and so little of himself. Which was probably for the best. Still. How lovely that she inherited his passion for music - the one thing about him that was worth passing on. “Performing your songs onstage is such a rush. There’s nothing like it. You won’t regret it.”

“Yeah… I guess.”

He eyed his empty whisky glass. Fuck it, he decided. Arianwen already saw him drinking. Another wouldn’t hurt. As he poured himself another glass, he asked, “So what do you and your band play?”

“I guess we’re still figuring that out. Right now we just sort of learn to play songs we like. But we’ve been experimenting with…”

******

Belle slipped the key into her apartment door, ready to be home for the night. Today was… what? Tuesday? No, Wednesday; Tuesdays were her days at the diner, whereas she’d just finished a shift at the library. Amazing how the days seemed to just blend together when there was never a day off to look forward to. Once she did last night’s dishes and microwaved a quick supper, the rest of the night was hers to do with as she pleased.

She stepped into her flat, and stopped short. There was a blonde woman in her kitchen, doing dishes. With a closer look, Belle realized it wasn’t just any blonde woman. It was Lacey. She was elbow-deep in sudsy dishwater, dancing to a song that was playing on her MP3 player. She turned at the sound of Belle shutting the door.

“Oh, hey. How was work?”

_ Who is this, and what did she do with my sister? _ Belle wondered. Aloud she said, “It… was fine. You?”

“Eh, same shit, different pile. You know how soul-sucking customer service is.” She turned back to the sink and continued scrubbing. She was washing Belle’s good baking sheet, she noticed.

“Make sure you don’t--”

“Don’t use the steel wool. I know.” Belle could practically hear Lacey’s eyes rolling. “You’ve only told me about a million times.”

She was at a complete loss for words. Lacey  _ never _ did dishes without having to be begged, scolded or bribed first. Ever. “You’re not using dirty dishwater, right? You change it out when it gets cloudy?”

“Yeah, Belle, I  _ know _ . Do you want to come over and inspect it?” Lacey sniped.

This wasn’t going well at all.  _ Say something about her hair, _ she thought desperately. “You changed your hair,” she managed. “It… it looks nice.”

Lacey paused in her washing up, glancing at her sister out of the corner of her eye. “Thanks,” she said. “Guess I kind of realized it was time for a change.”

“Oh. Well, it looks good. Kitchen does, too.” And it did. Lacey hadn’t just done the dishes; she’d also wiped the counters, and loaded the currently running dishwasher. She wasn’t sure what a dye job had to do with her sister’s newfound helpfulness, but Belle would gladly pay for facials, manis, pedis, and a whole new wardrobe if this continued. Following that train of thought, she asked, “Did you need something?”

Lacey slammed the dish back into the sink, sending up a geyser of water and suds. “No, I don’t fucking  _ need something _ . Maybe I just wanted to do something nice.”

Annoyance surged in her chest. “Well, that’d be a first,” she shot back, dropping her purse on the counter. “Also it’s not  _ nice _ to help with basic cleanup. That’s called pulling your weight. Something you’d know nothing about.”

“Yeah, and I wonder why that is,  _ mum! _ ” Lacey yelled, rounding on her. “You know what? Fuck this. This is what I get for trying to help.” She yanked the bright pink dishwashing gloves off her hands and threw them at Belle. They hit her chest with a wet  _ plop _ . Without another word, she stormed into her room, slamming the door behind her. Loud music poured out of the room moments later.

Bafflement and irritation warred with each other, and eventually settled on a stalemate. What had just happened? All she’d done was asked a few questions, and Lacey had nearly bitten her head off.

Well, whatever. At least now she could settle down with a book for a not-so-quiet night in. Lacey would get over her little snit, and would find something new to bicker about in the morning.

******

Lachlan was into his sixth drink of the night when his ex-wife called his mobile.

“Heyyyy, Catherine. What’s the occasion?” he asked, leaning back in his computer chair and resting his feet on the desk.

“Hi, Lachlan. We need to talk.”

Well, surprise, surprise, his ex was calling to harp on him about something. He snorted into his rocks glass. “Figured ye werenae calling for the pleasure of my company,” he said. “What say ye get to the point, then.”

Catherine’s exasperated sigh blew right into the microphone, making a loud static sound in Lachlan’s ear. “Lachlan, it doesn’t have to be like this.”

Typical Catherine - saying something meant to put him on edge, and then trying to make him out to be the bad guy when it put his back up. He scrubbed a scowl from his face. “No, no, ye’ve got something to say. I’m all ears.”

“Alright, fine. Ari told me you were drinking on your video call the other day. Is that true?”

“I - I  _ guess _ . I had a couple, yeah. Just to unwind after work.” The silence stretched across the phone, and like a pure idiot he scrambled to fill it. “Come on, Catherine, it was just a couple! It’s nae like I got pissed on camera with her. Christ, ye’d think I’m the only person in the world who has a drink or two after busting my arse at work all day.”

“You and I both know you don’t stop at a drink or two,” she argued. Her tone softened as she continued. “Look, Lachlan, I get what you’re going through--”

“Oh, well thank fuck for that,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes.

Catherine cleared her throat loudly. “I get what you’re going through,” she repeated a bit louder. “God, I understand better than most! I’ve seen what happens when you stop drinking. I can’t imagine that being back in Scotland helps.”

“Then what’s the fucking problem?” he demanded.

“You can’t just drink in front of her!”

“People drink, Catherine! What, are ye gonnae shelter her from everything, now?”

“Of course not! But the entire reason I divorced you was so that Ari wouldn’t grow up thinking that your alcoholism is normal!” she snapped. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re drinking right now.”

He spluttered wordlessly. How could she tell? How did she  _ always _ know?

“I need to talk to Ari’s therapist,” she continued. “I know she said that it’d be good for Ari to have a relationship with you, but… I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Hearing Catherine threaten his relationship with his daughter - tenuous though it might be - made something in him snap. “Oh, the therapist, the therapist!” he snarled. “It’s always about the fucking therapist with you! Christ, can’t ye be a parent for a single second without needing a therapist tae hold your hand?”

Catherine scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you! You haven’t been a parent to Ari for a minute of her life!”

“Well, I’m making an effort, aren’t I? ‘S nae my fault I got deported!”

“And surprise sur-fucking-prise, you’re trying to pass the buck on your deportation. What, did someone hold a gun to your head and force you to drive drunk? Tell you what,” she continued before he could answer. “I’m a big girl. I’ll make a decision without asking the therapist: until you get your act together, and get your drinking under control, Ari won’t be coming to visit you.”

“What? Catherine--”

“No, you know what? You wanted me to make a decision for myself. Well, that’s it. You can still have your weekly video calls, but right now I can’t trust you to keep her safe if she visits you. So until you prove to me that you can get your shit together, Ari will not be visiting.”

“Catherine, wait--”

“Goodbye, Lachlan.” And she hung up.

He stared blankly at his phone for a few moments. How had things gotten out of hand so quickly? So he had a few drinks every night. So fucking what? God knew he had nothing else to look forward to - nothing apart from Arianwen’s visit, rather. And now that was well and truly fucked, as well. Where did Catherine get off, keeping him from his daughter?

He didn’t have a problem. And even if he did, that wasn’t his fault. Drinking made him feel less miserable. And whose fault was it that he was miserable? Not his! It was - it was Lacey’s, for fucking around with him. It was Belle’s, too, for not warning him about her twin goddamn sister. And it was ICE’s for deporting him, and Warren’s for having a perfect fucking family that he couldn’t stand hearing about for one more second, and Beau’s for getting back with that fucking idiot DJ boyfriend of hers, and Catherine’s for divorcing him, and Jed’s for - for - 

...Fuck. What was he thinking? He couldn’t blame Jed for dying. That was all Lachlan’s fault. But Jed’s death was what had led him to drinking heavily. And if Jed’s death was his fault… then didn’t that mean that his drinking was, too? 

He tried to deny it. Everyone else in his life  _ had _ to be to blame for his drinking. They made him unhappy, and that made him drink. Lacey made him hurt Belle, and that made him drink. But he wouldn’t have met Lacey if he hadn’t been drinking. Of course, he wouldn’t have been drinking if Belle hadn’t kept secrets. But he kept his own secrets, so why was it wrong for Belle to keep hers?

This train of thought was giving him a headache. And through it all, Catherine’s earlier words echoed in his head:  _ did someone hold a gun to your head and force you? _

He needed to think, but his head was still trapped in a fog of booze. He eyed his half-empty glass of whisky consideringly. After a few long moments, he got up and poured it down the kitchen sink.

******

“I haven’t seen your young man around here lately,” Evelyn Campbell said on Friday afternoon.

Belle paused from her task of pouring milk and sugar into two paper cups of tea. Ever since she’d started helping with some of the most loathed tasks in the library, Mrs. Campbell - or Evelyn, as she asked Belle to call her - had started opening up to her. They now took a quiet afternoon tea together, chatting about favorite books. Evelyn preferred literature and poetry, which limited their common ground, but they’d found a mutual appreciation for works such as  _ Beowulf _ ,  _ Le Morte d’Arthur _ , and  _ Jane Eyre _ .

“What do you mean?” she asked carefully, handing a cup to Evelyn and taking a seat across from her.

The gray-haired woman raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Short man, in his mid-forties? Long, brown hair? Spent more time making cow eyes at you than filling out job applications? Used to visit you every day after I left for the day?”

“How did--” She cut herself off with a wince. If there had been any uncertainty about Lachlan’s evening visits, she’d just dispelled them entirely. 

“There’s a camera at the entrance, you know.” Evelyn took a ginger sip of her tea. Clearly it was still too hot, because she blew across the surface. “I review the footage every morning. That young man used to come by every time you worked alone. Until recently, that is.”

“Oh. Right.” Belle cursed herself mentally, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Of course he would show up on the security feed. How could she be so careless?

“Hmm… Did I ever tell you I met my husband right here, in this library?”

Belle blinked at the abrupt subject change. Even with their newfound camaraderie, Belle could count the things Evelyn had shared about herself on one hand. She knew by her title and the ring on her left hand that Mrs. Campbell was married, but knew nothing about her husband. “No,” she said.

“Oh, yes. He was on the way to a blind date and came in asking for directions.” She smiled fondly at the memory. “He was dressed in his best shirt and trousers, but still had dirt under his fingernails from working at the farm. He had a bouquet of daisies for his date. He gave them to me, instead, and asked me to dinner - said he’d be a fool to pass up the chance with the bonniest lass in all of Glasgow.” Even decades later, Evelyn’s cheeks still pinkened at the memory.

Belle leaned forward in her chair, elbows resting on her knees. “And? You said yes, right?”

She shook her head, the curve of her smile turning sly. “I turned him down flat.”

“What? Why?”

“Oh, I thought he was just another smooth talker, hoping for a quick tumble with a gullible girl.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “You see, nearly every man I encountered back then thought that bookish girls were either prudish, or naive enough to fall for the first man with a charming smile and a well-practiced line.” Her narrowed eyes and pursed lips told Belle exactly what Evelyn thought about  _ that _ line of thinking.

“So what did he do?”

“He came back to the library every day,” she replied. “He’d flirt, or ask me questions about myself, or tell me something about himself: his family, his friends, his hobbies. But he never asked me out again.” Her eyes took on a wistful, far-off quality. “He had the most beautiful jet black hair, and a smile that took my breath away. Before I knew it, I was smitten. I kept dropping hints that I’d like him to ask me for dinner, but he never did. It took me nearly two months to gather the courage to ask him out.” She took a moment to wet her throat with a sip of tea. “At the time, a woman asking a man on a date just wasn’t done. And when I finally couldn’t take it anymore, and asked him on a date, the smug man just smirked and said, ‘took you long enough.’”

“That’s such a sweet story.” Belle took a large gulp of her tea. It had just reached the perfect temperature for drinking, and would soon be tepid. “Does he still visit you here? I don’t remember seeing him around.”

Evelyn shook her head. “Oh, no, dear, my Larry died ten years ago. Lymphoma.”

Taken aback, Belle raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t worry yourself,” she said with a dismissive flick of a hand. “I had forty-three wonderful years with him. Used to visit me every day on his lunch break, he did.” Her gaze shifted slowly around the library, taking in everything: the bookshelves, the computers, the study tables, and the children’s corner. “Taking care of this place is just a small way of keeping him with me. I have our home, but this is the place where it all began.” She stayed quiet for a few more moments, then shook herself. “But we were talking about your young man.”

If Evelyn changed subjects any quicker, Belle would get whiplash. “We were?”

“We were,” she confirmed. “I told you about my Larry. Now it’s your turn.”

Belle didn’t recall making that deal. Still, Evelyn Campbell was no gossip. She might not have any useful advice to impart, but maybe talking about things would help her to unravel her tangled thoughts.

“It’s complicated,” she warned. 

“Then we’ll reshelve the returns while you tell me.” Finishing her tea, Evelyn crumpled her paper cup and dropped it in the bin. “Craig can hold down the circulation desk. Come on.”

And so, Belle found herself quietly spilling the whole tale. Her flirtation with Lachlan. Their two dates, and how the second one ended. His drinking, her secrets, and the utter disaster when the two collided. The strained silence between them ever since. Speaking it aloud didn’t provide any clarity, but it was a relief to get it out there.

“Well. You weren’t kidding. That  _ is _ complicated,” the older woman admitted as she tucked the last book away in its place on a shelf. “As far as I can tell, there are only two things you can do.”

“What’s that?” Belle asked.

Evelyn ticked off a finger. “The simple solution would be to forget that your Lachlan exists. Never speak to him again. Then, the next time a handsome man asks you on a date, don’t be so bloody stupid about it.”

Ouch. Evelyn was nothing if not blunt. But she made a good point. “And the other solution?”

She ticked off a second finger. “ _ Uncomplicate it. _ ”

“That’s easy to  _ say. _ I don’t even know how to start.”

Evelyn gave her the same puckered glare she gave to patrons who spoke too loudly, or returned a book late. “Well, you could start by talking to the poor man.”

Belle swallowed. She knew she had to talk to Lachlan. She knew it. She’d known from the start that if this was going to go anywhere, she’d have to open up about certain things. But his problems seemed so much more pressing than hers that she’d been quietly relieved to put hers on the back burner. Or preferably remove them from the kitchen altogether.

“What if it doesn’t help?” she whispered. 

A less dignified woman would have snorted; Evelyn sniffed. “I don’t see how it could hurt, dear. You’ve got nothing to lose. Either you get on the same page, or you move on.”

And therein lay the problem. As long as things were so uncertain between them, there was always hope that things could get better. If they talked, and he was still angry with her… or if he didn’t want her help… or if he really did want Lacey more… then that hope was dead. 

“You don’t have to do anything. But think about it,” Evelyn advised. She glanced at the clock. “It looks like it’s past time for me to go home, dear. Good luck, whatever you decide.”

The last couple of hours of Belle’s shift passed by in a blur. With the returns already put away, she had nothing to focus her attention on. Her nerves were far too jittery for reading, and the library was predictably empty. At one point her continuous gnawing at her lower lip caused it to split and start bleeding. A few dabs of a tissue stemmed the flow, and she tongued the wound idly.

Finally, it was time to lock up. As she flipped the lights off and secured the deadbolt, she heard her phone buzz in her purse. With a quick rummage through the pockets, she pulled the phone out and saw a new voicemail. It was from Lachlan. She waited until she was safely locked inside her car before she played the message. 

“Belle.” There was a brief pause. “I… Look, I know maybe you don’t want to hear from me. I haven’t been… well. I can’t say I haven’t been myself lately. I’ve been exactly myself; that’s the problem. Always is.” There was a ragged sigh. “Point being, I’ve been a right idiot about a lot of things. But I want - I want to make it right. Not just because I miss you - and I do, so much - but because you’ve shown so much faith in me. More than anybody’s shown me in… god, in decades. And you deserve to see me do something with it. So…” He swallowed audibly. “So I had my last drink last night. I’m going sober, from here on out. Maybe it’s too little, too late. I don’t know. So, I guess I just wanted to say, thank you for believing in me. Goodbye, Belle.”

Belle stared unseeingly out the windshield for a full minute. If she didn’t know better, she’d think that Lachlan got the same verbal kick to the pants that Evelyn had just given her. 

His message filled her with joy, even as it terrified her. He missed her, and on his first sober day he reached out to her. He was giving up drinking! That was incredible!

And dangerous. She’d done extensive research on quitting alcohol over the years, and she knew that it was risky to give it up cold turkey. He needed to know what he was up against. Inserting her key into the ignition, she hurried home.

******

He could do this. He  _ could _ . 

Immediately following his epiphany last night, he’d taken a lukewarm shower in an effort to sober himself up. It hadn’t helped much, but the process of washing himself had given him time to mentally digest everything that had developed.

Belle would like it if he sobered up, he knew. Between her wreck of a sister and whatever made her hate drunk driving so much, he couldn’t fathom why she’d put up with his drunk arse as often as she did. But if he stopped drinking for her, and she didn’t take him back, it would only be a matter of time before he picked the bottle right back up again.

He couldn’t use his family as a motivation. Even thinking of them - of Jed, and his mam and da, and how he’d never see any of them again - sent fits of guilt through him. He still hadn’t even been able to bring himself to visit their graves. Seeing the cold headstones would just make their deaths solidify in his mind.

In the end, there was only one person he could truly say he felt safe sobering up for: Arianwen. No matter what, she would always be his daughter. And she was such a great kid; she deserved a dad she could be proud of. One who was more than just an image on a computer monitor, or a memory of a drunk who slammed her hand in a door and sent her to the hospital. Maybe he couldn’t be the dad she really deserved, but he could try.

It was with that thought that he’d taken his two bottles of whisky last night, dumped them down the drain, and rinsed the bottles clean for recycling. His beers met with a similar fate, and when his coworker Tom had offered a swig from his flask during lunch today, he’d managed to resist by the skin of his teeth. By the end of his shift, the headache and shaking hands dampened his resolve. In a moment of weakness, he’d called Belle in the hopes that she could lend him some strength. She hadn’t picked up. Still, he’d left her a voicemail, for his own benefit. The knowledge that Belle knew he was going sober was enough to help hold him accountable. He couldn’t quit now, not on his first day. Not when he could picture the disappointment on her face if he gave up.

Now he was watching something mindless on Netflix - something about car restorations, or something - and trying to ignore the throbbing in his temples. The show didn’t remotely interest him, but it was noise and distraction. A knock at the door sent a bolt of pain shooting behind his eyes. Must be the landlord, Don. Nobody else would be dropping by at this hour. Or at all. Gritting his teeth, he picked his way to the door and wrenched it open, squinting against the hallway’s fluorescent lighting.

“Don, the rent isn’t due for… Belle!” God, she was a sight for sore eyes. How had he forgotten how incredibly blue her eyes were, or the way the light glinted off of the red highlights in her hair? “What are you doing here?”

“I got your message.” Her teeth sank into her lower lip, then released it with a wince. “Did you mean it? You’ve quit drinking?”

“I did, yeah. I mean, if you can call it quitting when it’s hardly been a day.” He was still trying to wrap his head around her presence here. When he’d called her in desperation, he’d never dreamed that she’d even want to speak to him, much less come to see him. 

“Good.” Bending slightly at the knees, she picked up her bags. Belatedly he realized that she had a large teal suitcase in one hand, and was hefting a bundle of large paper shopping bags in the others. “Are you going to let me in?”

“Let you… What are you doing here?” he repeated, dumbfounded.

Her smile was a sad, lopsided thing. “You’re doing something incredibly brave, taking a step toward getting your life together. I thought maybe I should do the same.”

“Huh?”

“You’re quitting your drinking. And I’m going to help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I write petty bickering better than any other dialogue. It comes ridiculously easily. Must be all those imaginary arguments I have in the shower.
> 
> This isn't an end to the angst, but it SHOULD be a turning point in the story. I hope. I'm making up like 70% of this as I go.


	11. Take Back Your Life, Let Me Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, y'know what? I'm just gonna stop making predictions about where this story will go. Any time I have a clear game plan, these characters turn them on their ears. Which is honestly for the best; they seem to have better judgment than I do.

“You’re quitting your drinking. And I’m going to help you,” Belle said with a confidence she didn’t feel. She half expected him to slam the door in her face.

Lachlan gaped at her, and she took a moment to drink him in. He looked… well, he looked like hell, if she was honest. His face was drawn and pale, and he leaned heavily against the doorjamb as though he was too exhausted to stand. His hair flopped limply in his eyes. 

Even like this, he was beautiful. Maybe especially now that he was doing something so brave.

“Why?” he finally asked.

“That’s not really a conversation I want to have out in the hallway,” she said quietly. “Can I come in?”

With a resigned slump of his shoulders, he stepped aside and gestured for her to precede him. Belle lugged her bags inside and plopped them down. She gestured toward the kitchen. “May I?” she asked. He nodded mutely. Leaving her suitcase behind, she carried the paper shopping bags into the kitchen and started unloading them onto the counters. 

She’d made two stops before coming to Lachlan’s flat. First, she’d stopped at her place to pack some necessities: clothes, toiletries, a few of her most comforting books, and a handful of premade meals from her freezer. Next, she’d run to a local shop and picked up some basics for the kitchen, plus sports drinks to combat dehydration. 

Lachlan shut the door behind him. He stared at Belle as though he’d never seen her before while she put the groceries away. Apart from a few mismatched dishes and microwavable foods, his cupboards were woefully bare. It was a good thing she’d come; he was completely unprepared for the physical toll this weekend would take on his body.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” she announced. “Have you?”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask if you were fine. I asked if you’ve eaten.” She popped a container of frozen soup into the microwave to defrost. 

Lachlan shook his head, pressing his lips together. “Not hungry,” he muttered.

She nodded. “That’s common. But you’re in for a rough few days. You need to keep your strength up.”

“I know. I’ve done this before.” He plopped down into a chair at the kitchen table, raking trembling hands through his hair. “You don’t need to be here, Belle. I can handle this on my own.” Despite his words, he didn’t look at all confident in himself.

“I know you can,” she agreed. “But I spent years researching alcohol withdrawal. If you want to quit without stepping yourself down, that’s fine. But Lachlan, it’s  _ dangerous. _ You need someone with you to - to keep an eye on you, and make sure you’re okay.”

He scowled, his leg jittering agitatedly. “I’m  _ fine _ . You don’t need to--”

Belle cut him off. “You could  _ die _ , Lachlan!”

“I don’t--”

Her hand slapped loudly on the counter, shocking him into silence. “Listen,” she snapped, fixing him with her fiercest glare. “I’ve lost too many people I love to drinking, one way or another. It will  _ not _ have you, too!” The microwave beeped, letting her know that the soup was done. She ignored it. It would keep. “You have a choice. You can either check yourself into a rehab center, or you can put up with me for a few days.” She hunted down bowls and spoons and started serving the soup. “Now, you need to get some food in you. So how about we sit down and have some dinner? You can tell me what you decide after we eat.”

******

Lachlan’s leg bounced anxiously as he picked through the soup with his spoon. It was delicious, but he was far too queasy to eat more than a few bites. At least there was a good, crusty bread to sop up some of the broth with. His stomach could handle that in small bites.

He still couldn’t believe Belle was really here, in his kitchen, bossing him around like she owned the place. Her selflessness and inner strength humbled him… but he should make her leave. The next few days were going to be a living hell. She didn’t need to witness him like that. Bad enough she’d already seen him drunk and hungover. 

It would be so easy to snarl at her, drive her out of here. His temper was strained and fraying, ready to snap any second like an overstretched elastic. Every move sent a stab of pain through his head, and his stomach roiled angrily with every morsel of food he forced down his gullet. He was jumpy and irritable, and desperate for someone to take it all out on. Turning all of that on Belle would appease the anger in his gut, and would get her out of here before things got worse.

If he were a decent man, he’d do it. If he were a good man, he’d lie and convince her that he’d check into rehab that he couldn’t actually afford. But as in all other things, he was selfish in this. He needed her. He was doing this for his daughter, but she wasn’t here, and he couldn’t do this on his own.

Still, he couldn’t spend the next few days shut up with her without getting some answers first. “Why didn’t you tell me about Lacey?” His tone was harsher than he’d intended, but he couldn’t find it in him to give a damn. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked.

And here she was, being evasive again. Not a great start. “Humor me.”

Belle fidgeted with her spoon, drawing designs in the small pool of broth at the bottom of her bowl. “I didn’t want her to meet you,” she finally admitted. “I knew if she did, she’d… well…” She raised her hand in a halfhearted gesture before letting it flop back down to slap her thigh. “I figured, if I kept you separated, things would be different this time. Fat lot of good that did.”

“And, what - it never occurred to you that maybe - just maybe - I’d run into someone who lives with you and looks just like you? And maybe it would’ve been really damn helpful to know that I needed to be on the lookout for an identical twin?” His voice was growing gradually louder, and dimly he knew that yelling wasn’t helping anything. But weeks of frustration were pouring out of him all at once, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

She didn’t rise to the bait. Shoulders slumped, she massaged her cheeks tiredly. “What do you want me to say, Lachlan?” she asked wearily. “That I had it all figured out, had some brilliant, long-term plan to make this work? Well, I didn’t. It was late. I was tired, and her call caught me off-guard. So I panicked. That’s all there is to it.”

“Lacey told me she stole a few of your boyfriends. But so what? If--”

Belle snorted. “‘A few?’ Try ‘all.’ Every last one.” She fixed him with a penetrating stare, her blue eyes raw and hurting. “Do you have any idea how that feels? When every last person you’ve given your heart to chooses someone else over you? And even worse, they choose someone who looks just like you, so you don’t even get the comfort of convincing yourself that they just traded you in for a hotter model. Do you know what it’s like to feel utterly unwanted - unlovable - because of who you are?”

No. He didn’t. But she wasn’t unlovable. She had to see that. “If they didn’t know they were sleeping with Lacey--”

“Oh, they knew,” she interrupted. “She made sure they knew beforehand. You’re the only one she was so underhanded with.” All exhaustion was gone from her frame. Rage and misery radiated from her now; she practically vibrated with it. “No, they all knew who she was when they fucked her. And they all dumped me to be with her, after. Oh - except my last boyfriend in college, Gary. He tried to convince us to have a threesome. So at least one guy didn’t dump me outright. I guess I should take that as a compliment,” she muttered bitterly.

And with that, another piece of the puzzle that was Belle clicked into place. “That’s why you hadn’t had sex in so long,” he realized. And another revelation, which he kept to himself: this was what made her lose confidence in the bedroom. It was never about her body. She felt inferior to her twin, as both a person and a lover.

She nodded. “What’s the point when I just get hurt every time?” she asked in a small voice. Her face crumpled as tears filled her eyes. Before he could offer any sort of comfort she was blinking furiously, teeth sinking viciously into her lower lip.

He couldn’t let that stand. Maybe he was just making things worse, but he couldn’t watch while she lashed out at herself like that. Reaching out one hand to cup her cheek, he tugged gently at her lower lip with his thumb. She resisted. “Belle. Don’t.” Reluctantly she released her hold, and he rubbed his thumb soothingly over the indents her teeth left behind. They stared deeply into each other’s eyes, and god, he’d be kissing her right now if he wasn’t sure it would make this whole mess even worse.

She broke the connection first, lowering her eyes and pulling slowly back from his touch. “I should - I should do the dishes,” she said lamely.

Lachlan recognized a retreat when he saw one, so he didn’t argue as she cleared the table and bustled about the kitchen. Instead he went back to the couch to surf Netflix - ostensibly looking for something for them to watch, but really just to give Belle some privacy.

He hadn’t anticipated the clusterfuck that was her love life. And how could he? She’d made all the first moves - asking him on their first date, inviting him to kiss her, giving him the green light for sex. Apart from a couple of hiccups in the bedroom, he never would have guessed that her confidence was practically nonexistent.

Come to think of it, though, she never really initiated. She made her interest clear, but she always waited for him to kiss her. Waited for him to show he wanted her.

God, what a mess. What a fucking mess. He wouldn’t know how to handle this situation on a good day, and today definitely wasn’t a good day. He felt like he was barely holding himself together with bubblegum and dental floss; one stiff breeze would be enough to crumble him. He didn’t have it in him to offer much in the way of reassurance just now.

But Belle was here, and she was talking to him. That was huge. He could work with that. If they could make it past the next few days, until he got through the worst of the withdrawal, they could fix this. He just needed to keep his temper under control long enough for his emotions to level out.

With that in mind, he settled on some show featuring wizards or gods or something. It looked ridiculous to him, but Belle liked fantasy. He could put up with it for tonight.

******

The screaming would have woken Belle if she’d been sleeping.

Lachlan had left her alone to clean up after dinner. Once she’d finished shoring up the dam that kept her tears in check - and scrubbing the few escapees from her face - she joined him on that awful couch to watch TV with him. He’d put on a show she’d seen before, and enjoyed. Judging by his glazed expression, he’s chosen it mostly for her benefit, but it could be that he was just exhausted. After a single episode he’d fetched her a blanket and pillow before retiring to his bedroom.

They hadn’t discussed whether she was staying or not, but it seemed like he was willing to accept her help. Which was good. Really. She just didn’t know how she was going to face him in the morning. It was bad enough that she’d basically admitted to being the lesser twin. For him to see her nearly lose control of her emotions added insult to injury. There was no time for weakness when Lachlan needed her to be strong.

She hadn’t stayed up much later than Lachlan. For one thing, she knew she had a long few days ahead of her. And for another, she was completely knackered. She’d changed into a comfortable pair of pajamas in the bathroom. The worn tank top was a teensy bit see-through, but it was nothing Lachlan hadn’t seen before. Once she finished brushing her teeth and braiding her hair, she’d settled on the couch, snuggling into the blanket that smelled like him so she could get some sleep.

That was the plan, anyway. The couch was even less comfortable to sleep on than to sit on. Worse than that, though, was her worry about Lacey. Belle had texted her sister to let her know that she’d be away from home for a few days, and wouldn’t be available to give her rides. She was overdue for a 3am phone call; Lacey hadn’t woken her up all week to ask for a lift home from a bar. But other than a simple “ok,” her sister hadn’t had anything to say. And so, between trying to find a single comfortable position on the couch and worrying that her sister was dead in a ditch somewhere, Belle dozed fitfully until the screams started.

Heart in her throat, Belle bolted for Lachlan’s room and flicked the switch on. The sight froze the blood in her veins. Lachlan thrashed on his bed, his limbs tangled in the sweaty sheet. For a heart-stopping moment Belle thought he might be having a seizure, and was on the verge of running for her phone to dial 999. But she could make out a few words in his cries - words like “wake up,” “sorry,” what sounded like… Jed? His brother? This wasn’t a seizure; it was a nightmare. A bad one.

She couldn’t leave him like this. With a trembling hand, she reached out and gently shook him awake. His eyes snapped open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. The thrashing stopped, but his breath came in rapid gasps as he clutched at his chest.

“Lachlan? What’s wrong?” she cried.

His mouth worked wordlessly. With his sweat-soaked hair and helpless wriggling, he looked like a fish out of water. “D-dying,” he rasped.

_ Don’t panic. You’re no use to him if you panic. _ Brushing the damp hair from his face, she checked his temperature. Apart from the cold sweat, it felt normal. His pulse was a bit elevated, but she didn’t think it was anything serious. “Sweetie, can you look at me?” she asked, sitting down next to him. Wild brown eyes met blue and held them. “I think you’re having a panic attack. I know it’s scary, but I’m here to help you. Do you want me to help?”

He nodded frantically, and managed to loosen one hand from his shirt to grasp hers. He pressed her palm firmly to his chest on the left hand side. It seemed to calm him a little, until Belle pulled her hand back. He held it in place with a whimper.

“Shh, sweetie, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. Let’s just get more comfortable.” Shifting so she was leaning against the headboard, Belle rearranged Lachlan so his head was pillowed on her lap before allowing him to press her hand to his chest again. She pressed down as well, and the pressure seemed to soothe him. Thanking her long nights of falling down the Wikipedia rabbit hole for her limited knowledge of panic attacks, she sifted the fingers of her free hand through his sweat-soaked hair, crooning reassurances and praises until his breathing slowed a little. They weren’t out of the woods yet, but at least he was a bit better. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“Chest hurts. Feels like I’m dying.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I should. I deserve it.”

Belle’s heart broke to hear him say that. She shoved the feeling down as far as it would go; right now he needed calm. “I don’t think so,” she murmured.

“I dae,” he insisted. “After what I’ve done, I dae.”

“Okay, okay,” she soothed. “Tell me why you think that.”

“I didnae visit my mam and da before they died. I was a f-f-fucking coward, hiding out in California.”

“But you came back, right? That was brave.”

He shook his head miserably. “I w-was deported. DUI.”

Pain lanced through Belle’s heart. Again, she pushed it away. “Did you hit someone?” she whispered. He shook his head again. “Okay. So you left home, and you didn’t come back until you had to. You don’t deserve to die for that.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, slid down his temples to soak into his sideburns. She wiped them away with her thumb. “That’s nae why I deserve it,” he moaned. 

“Then why?”

His grip on her hand tightened painfully. Belle endured it with a wince. She doubted Lachlan had any idea what he was doing right now. “I - Jed--”

“Your brother?” He nodded, trembling beneath her hands. His breathing didn’t speed up, and his cold sweats had stopped, but he was still in the throes of panic. Continuing the slow stroke of her fingers over his scalp, she heaped praise and reassurance on him until the shaking lessened. “What happened to your brother, sweetie?”

He began sobbing in earnest now, and Belle didn’t know what else she could do to help him. Combing fingers through his hair and whispering variations of “you’re okay” could only do so much. Just when she was about to tell him to forget the question, he spoke. 

“I k-killed him! I fucking killed him!”

Belle’s jaw dropped in horror. Oh, god. This was so much worse than she could ever have imagined. She knew that there were things in Lachlan’s past that he regretted - things that had kept him away from the UK for years. She knew that his brother had died nearly twenty years ago. But she’d never dreamed that the two were related.

She tried to shush him, but the floodgates had opened, and stopping him just upset him more. He was babbling, weaving in and out of coherence, but she got the basic idea. Something about recording an album, and a deadline. Jed, determined to go straight, and Lachlan with a batch of bad drugs. Finding his brother, cold and stiff and dead on the couch where they’d left him to sleep it off. In his meandering, one detail kept popping up: the “piss-yellow” wallpaper in the recording studio. He seemed to fixate on it for some reason.

Eventually he lapsed into silence and his tremors subsided. His grip on her hand eased, and she took advantage of her newfound freedom to rub soothing circles on his chest. That seemed to help; the tension gradually leeched out of him until he was completely limp. With a great, shuddering sigh, he sat up. It was over.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Or at all.”

Belle didn’t know what to say. “It’s okay?” It clearly wasn’t; his brother was dead, and Lachlan was barely holding on twenty years later. “It doesn’t matter to me?” That would only trivialize his pain. “I’m here for you?” What good was that?

Finally, she settled on a question: “Does this happen to you often?”

“Aye, when I stop drinking. Last time I tried, we had a baby in the house. Didn’t go so well.”

And yet he was still doing it. Even knowing the physical and mental toll waiting for him, he still found the strength to put himself through hell when it would be so much easier to drink his problems away. If Belle hadn’t already fallen for him, she’d be in serious danger of doing so now.

As Belle shifted to leave the bed, Lachlan’s hand shot out to hers, forestalling her. “Will you stay?” he asked. “Not - just until I fall asleep.”

“Of course. Just let me get a few things.” 

Slipping out of bed, she padded out of the room and through the otherwise silent flat. As she fetched a book and her reading light - she was far too wired to fall asleep now - she eyed the yellowed walls of the apartment speculatively. She remembered the time she’d found Lachlan drunk outside the cemetery, and his fear of coming back home. Did he understand the effect this place had on him, or was it subconscious? Either way, she had plans for tomorrow.

With a quick stop in the kitchen to snag a sports drink and some pain pills for Lachlan, she returned to the bedroom. She handed the drink to Lachlan, nodding in satisfaction as he sipped the luridly-colored beverage. Once he’d drank about half of it, she flipped the light off and settled next to him in bed, her book light the only illumination in the otherwise dark room.

“Belle?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you reading?”

“ _ The Hobbit. _ It’s one of my favorites.”

“Oh.”

She glanced over at him. The tiny bulb of her book light was just enough to cast shadows over his profile: long nose, thin lips, eyes staring up at the ceiling. He needed rest, but sleep clearly wouldn’t come easily.

“I could read it to you. If you want,” she offered. He nodded his assent, so she curled up on her side facing him, carefully positioning her light so it didn’t shine in his face. Tentatively, still unsure of her welcome even after everything, she reached out and laid a hand on his chest. He sighed softly, his eyes fluttering shut as she rubbed his sternum in slow, calming circles.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit,” she read. “Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

Belle read to Lachlan until his breathing gradually evened out into soft snores. Moving slowly so as not to disturb his slumber, she crept from the room and back to the couch. Out of habit, she hazarded a glance at her phone. No new messages from Lacey. She wasn’t sure whether she was more apprehensive or relieved. But that was a question for later. For now, she wanted to get what sleep she could while Lachlan was resting peacefully.

******

Lachlan wasn’t sure which awoke him: the rhythmic scraping coming from the other side of his bedroom wall, or the beam of sunlight that snaked in through his blinds and managed to shine directly in his eyes. God dammit. All he wanted was a little more sleep. But no, apparently that was too much to ask for. With an aggravated growl he rolled over, burying his face under one pillow, and - where the  _ fuck _ was his other pillow?!

He sat up with a huff. It didn’t matter, anyway; that sound, whatever it was, set him on edge too much to let him fall back asleep. Would have been nice to get some uninterrupted rest, though. He’d woken up five more times over the course of the night. Once to belatedly puke up dinner. Once to take a piss. And three more times due to blessedly quiet, attack-free nightmares. Thank god for small favors, he supposed.

First things first: find the source of that ungodly racket and make it stop. He threw yesterday’s jeans over a fresh pair of boxers, not bothering to replace the shirt he’d changed into after last night’s digestive pyrotechnics.

The sight that greeted him in the living room surprised him. Belle was covered from head to toe: bandana, face mask, frayed old university sweater, rubber cleaning gloves, jeans, and sneakers. All he could see of her was her eyes, and even those hid behind clear safety goggles. She was currently taking a rough-bristled mop to the wall abutting his bedroom. 

The sight enraged him.

“What in the blue fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Belle immediately stopped what she was doing. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t realize the walls were so thin.” Her eyes crinkled in a smile. “How are you feeling? Did you sleep okay?”

Of course he fucking hadn’t. For someone who supposedly knew  _ so much _ about alcohol withdrawal, she didn’t act like it. “I’m fine,” he bit out. The whole flat stunk like artificial pine scent, worsening his already agonizing headache.

Belle peeled the bright pink gloves off her hands and draped them over the edge of a bucket filled with dark brown water. Off came the mask and goggles, the latter leaving pink lines around her eyes. “Are you hungry? I can whip us up some breakfast.”

For some reason, that pissed him off even more. “No, I don’t want fucking breakfast!” He stomped off to the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets. Where the hell was the coffee? He kept a bag of grounds on the counter, and now it was gone. 

“What do you need, Lachlan?” He didn’t turn to face her, instead bracing his quivering hands against the counter. If he had to see her in that outfit for one more second, he was going to explode.

“Coffee.”

“I don’t think so. You’re dehydrated, and you’re a ball of nerves right now. Caffeine is the last thing you need.” She crossed the kitchen to the fridge and pulled out a sports drink, plunking it down next to him. 

If he had to choke down one more of those disgusting drinks… “I don’t need that,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “I need  _ coffee _ .”

Belle let out a long-suffering sigh. What the hell did  _ she _ have to be annoyed about? She wasn’t the one going through withdrawal right now. She didn’t have a jackhammer going behind her eyes and a cement mixer churning in her gut. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” she announced, “and when I get out, I’ll make us something to eat. Maybe the day will look a little brighter with something in your stomach.” And with that, she left.

He snatched the bright orange drink with a scowl, sipping on it resentfully on his way back to the living room. He  _ hated _ orange. He hated artificial fruit flavors, and the reek of the cleaning solution, and… and… and he fucking  _ loathed _ seeing Belle dressed in grubby clothes, working herself to the bone with a smile on her face like he deserved a fraction of what she had to give.

Oh. Fuck.

His anger vanished like a burst soap bubble. What was he  _ doing? _ Belle, in her infinite generosity, was helping him get his shit together in every possible way: taking care of him physically, soothing him emotionally, letting him confide in her, and now even cleaning his fucking flat for him. He had absolutely fuck-all to repay her with, and to top it all off, now he was snapping at her over nothing. Even now, part of him still desperately wanted to lash out at her because she was there and  _ he needed a fucking drink. _

He had to get better. He had to  _ be _ better. He needed… He needed a reminder of why he was putting himself through this misery. A token to help give him a slight kick in his arse when he needed it. With that in mind, he whipped out his mobile and fired off a quick text to Catherine.  _ You were right. Call me when you’re free? _

That done, he settled on the couch to wait for Belle, noticing the fruits of her effort for the first time. Apart from the ceilings and the carpet, everything was so much brighter. The walls and doorways were no longer a disgusting yellow-brown, but now a lightly-stained off-white. Even the windows seemed to let more light in. His head protested the illumination, but he couldn’t deny the good it did his heart. And as overpowering as the cleaning solution was, it was a damned sight better than decades-old cigarette smoke.

Soon Belle emerged from the bathroom in a billow of steam, dressed in another pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, with her hair wrapped in… Was that a T-shirt tied around her head?

“There should be clean towels in the closet,” Lachlan said with a hint of embarrassment. Should be, but after the past week he hadn’t exactly been on top of the laundry. He hoped she didn’t have to dry her hair with a dirty shirt.

“Oh, there were,” she assured him. “This is just how I dry my hair. Curls can be a bit high maintenance.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t really sure what else to say to that. But there was something else he should be saying, anyway. “Belle, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

She waved his apology off. “It’s alright, I expected it sooner or later. I know you’re not exactly working on a full tank of--”

“Stop  _ doing _ that!” Jesus, he was doing it again already. He steadied himself with a few deep breaths. “Don’t… don’t make excuses for me. I’m being an arsehole. That’s on me.”

“Okay. You’re being an arsehole,” she agreed. “But you’re also hurting, exhausted, and emotionally drained doing something very difficult, so I think you’ve earned a little patience. Now come to the kitchen while I make us breakfast.”

He followed her like a lost puppy, sitting down when she pointed imperiously at the kitchen table. “How do you know so much about all this?” he asked as she busied herself making oatmeal.

“I told you last night - I researched it.”

Lachlan wasn’t entirely stupid. He was slowly learning the signs that indicated when Belle was being evasive - the stiffness in her shoulders, and the careful, blank expression on her face. And damn it, he was getting sick of it. “Any particular reason?” he asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

And failing miserably, judging by her wary glance. “My dad,” she admitted, “and later, Lacey. I guess I always hoped that maybe they’d come to me looking for help. I wanted to be ready for that day.”

Well, obviously Lacey hadn’t. “And did he? Your dad, I mean.”

“No,” she said quietly. “He never did.”

Shite. He was dead, then. He must be one of the people she said she’d lost. “I’m sorry,” he said lamely, wishing he knew something more comforting to say.

“It’s fine. Or at least, it is what it is.” She ladled oatmeal into bowls and topped them with fruit and honey before joining him at the table.

Eating, Lachlan soon found, was much more difficult than it was yesterday. His hands were shaking much worse, and it was all he could do to get the damn spoon to his mouth with some damn food on it. If the tremors got any worse, he’d have to resort to shoving his face in the bowl and eating like an animal.

Eventually he managed to finish most of his bowl before his stomach protested. It gradually settled while Belle tidied up.

“I’d like to keep cleaning, if that’s alright with you,” she said. “And before you say anything, I want to. I’ll rest easier knowing you have someplace nice to come home to.”

He didn’t deserve that consideration one bit, but if it made her feel better, he wouldn’t stop her. But he still had one concern. “You shouldn’t be tiring yourself out before work,” he scolded.

She looked at him like he’d just grown two extra heads and a tail. “Do you really think I’m just going to leave you alone for eight hours? I’ve got sick time at the library, and I called the diner to let them know I can’t make it in tomorrow. I’ll have to go back to work on Tuesday, but until then I’m all yours.”

As far as he was concerned, he’d like her to be all his for a hell of a lot longer than that. But they still had a lot they needed to talk about, and now wasn’t the time for that, with his temper as short as it was. 

Still, he refused to just sit by while she wore herself out. “I want to help,” he insisted. 

Belle didn’t argue. The first task she gave him was to pick some music for them to listen to while they worked. That done, she had him handle the lighter housework that wouldn’t put too much strain on him - dusting, folding his clean laundry, and finally getting around to unpacking and shelving his CDs and vinyl - while she tackled the walls of his bedroom. They took a break when he puked up half of his breakfast, Belle’s cool hands comforting him while he sweated and shook and heaved over the toilet. She coaxed him to take a shower, then, and he had to admit that the warm water helped ease his tremors and aching muscles.

When he got out, scrubbing at his hair with a towel with another wrapped around his waist, Belle was steam-cleaning his carpet. Her arse wiggled to the beat of the music, and he paused in the bathroom doorway to admire the view. Now that she wasn’t scrubbing tar off the walls, she’d abandoned the face coverings and gloves. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her curls swinging gently with each sway of her hips. Her jeans weren’t as form-fitting as her leggings, or as revealing as the skirts that had tormented him for weeks, but they hugged her bum lovingly all the same.

She switched off the steam cleaner - where the hell had she gotten that, anyway? - and removed a tank full of very black water. “Oh!” she cried when she saw him. Her eyes flickered up and down, drinking him in unabashedly, her cheeks reddening slightly. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. “You should… probably get dressed,” she said, her voice low and strained.

“Aye.” He hid a smile as he excused himself to the bedroom. Belle’s lustful gaze alleviated a worry he hadn’t even been aware was there. If she could still want him when he was weak, sickly and testy, maybe he wasn’t fucking this up as horribly as he feared. 

When he came back out, Belle had made sandwiches for lunch. They ate in companionable silence, Lachlan managing to choke down half of his sandwich and a few crisps, before they got back to work. Lachlan was horrified to discover that what he thought was a charcoal gray carpet was actually a pale beige. Thankfully, he wasn’t a follower of the five-second rule; just the thought of eating something off that floor was enough to make his stomach roil angrily.

He managed to keep his lunch down - just barely - and was taking a much needed break when Catherine called. “Sorry - I’ve got to take this,” he told Belle, shutting himself in the bedroom before answering. “Hey, Catherine.”

“Well, color me shocked - Lachlan MacAldonich actually admits when he’s wrong! Will they be declaring a national holiday here, or out there in the UK?”

He knew she was joking, trying to ease the tension, but he was in no mood. “Not now, Catherine.”

She sobered immediately. “Everything alright?”

“Aye. Just… I was wondering if you could send me some pictures of Arianwen.” He waited for her reply. And waited. And waited. “Are you still there?” he finally asked impatiently.

“Yeah, you just surprised me. In a good way,” she hastened to add. “I… yeah, I’ve got a bunch of pictures. I’ll text you what I’ve got on my phone, and I can email you the rest. Sound good?”

“Aye. Thanks.”

“Lachlan… Did you quit drinking?”

“Christ, how do you always fucking know everything about me?” he groused.

“Years of practice. Besides, I’m a mom; I’m supposed to be a mind-reader with eyes on the back of my head.” She chuckled at her own joke. “Seriously, though, all I asked was that you get your drinking under control. You didn’t need to quit altogether.”

“Don’t give me an out, Catherine. You know I’ll take it.”

“Fair enough. Well, I think it’s great that you’re doing this for Ari. Did you want to tell her, or should I?”

He hesitated. “Why your father became a drunk” wasn’t exactly a conversation he was eager to have with his daughter. On the other hand, if Catherine told her, he wouldn’t be able to control the narrative. She could spill everything about Jed, and about the miserable last days of their marriage, and he wouldn’t be able to do a thing to stop it. The thought terrified him.

But Catherine wasn’t petty like that. He had to believe that she wouldn’t screw him over like that, if only for Arianwen’s benefit.

“I think… I think you should tell her. You know her better. You’ll know what to say better than I do. And could you tell her we’ll have to take a rain check on our call this week? I’ve been a bear to deal with lately.”

“I’ll pass on the message.” A long pause. Then, “Lachlan… are you okay? Last time you gave up drinking…”

“I’m fine.” He shook his head. “Well, no, I’m not. I feel like shite, I’m puking my brains out, and I’d give my left bollock for a stiff drink and a full night’s sleep, in that order. But I’m managing. I’ve got someone here helping me out.”

“‘Someone?’”

He was  _ not _ going to get into the complexities of his love life with his ex-wife. Especially with Belle in just the other room. “Someone,” he repeated.

“...Okay. Well, take care of yourself. We’ll be rooting for you.”

“Thanks. You too.”

******

Belle waited for ten minutes after she could no longer hear Lachlan’s voice through the bedroom door before she knocked and poked her head in. He was seated on the bed, staring at his phone. When the door opened, he looked up and greeted her with a smile. 

“Hey.” He gestured with his phone. “That was my ex-wife, Catherine. I asked her to send me some pictures of our daughter. I was just going through them now.”

She took a step back. “Did you want some privacy? I can—“

“No, no.” The fingers of his free hand fiddled with his bracelet. “You could join me. If you - if you want.”

“I’d like that.” She sat next to him, very carefully not letting her arm brush against his, and he tilted his phone so she could see. All of the photos featured a pretty teenage girl with long, straight black hair and gentle brown eyes. “That’s her?”

“That’s Arianwen,” he confirmed. “Or, I guess she prefers Ari, now.”

“It’s a pretty name.” She kept watching as he scrolled through the photos - pictures of her strumming a guitar, hanging out with friends, and getting academic awards. “She has your eyes.”

He snorted. “I’d say she’s the best thing I’ve done with my life, but I had very little to do with it. I wasn’t… in the picture until very recently. And then I got deported, so…” He shrugged helplessly.

“But you’re trying now, right?” 

He nodded. “That’s what made me decide to quit,” he said quietly. “She’s coming up to visit in a couple of months. I need to get better. Show I can be a good dad, even if it’s only for a few weeks out of the year.”

“I know you can do it.” Lachlan looked up from his phone, then, and met her eyes. The uncertain smile on his face made her breath catch in her throat. 

It would be so easy to reach out, run her hand along that stubbled cheek, and pull him in for a kiss. She’d seen how he looked at her earlier when he came out of the shower - like he wanted to eat her alive. She shivered at the memory. He definitely wasn’t in shape for anything of the sort, but she doubted he’d say no to a snogging session.

But there was an ugly little voice in the back of her head that reminded her that he’d slept with Lacey. She didn’t hold it against him; he was just a victim of her idiocy and Lacey’s spite. But now he knew whatever it was that made men choose Lacey over Belle, whether it was her personality or her skills in bed. Lachlan seemed to care about her, but she just couldn’t stop waiting for the other shoe to drop - for him to realize that he wanted to be with her sister. If he did, it would break her heart.

“Belle.” His thumb gently pulled her lower lip from between her teeth, and when had she started chewing on the dead skin again? But his eyes held hers in their warm depths, and she was helpless to resist even in the face of her fear.

But he didn’t pull her closer. He just stared at her searchingly, like he was trying to puzzle something out. His stomach growled, breaking the spell and giving her just the excuse she needed to pull away.

“Let’s - let’s get you something to eat,” she stammered, rising quickly to put some distance between them. “Are sandwiches okay? I know we had them for lunch, but I’m a bit worn out.”

Truthfully, “a bit worn out” was a massive understatement. She was dead on her feet. Cooking, scrubbing, lugging heavy water buckets around, and helping Lachlan through his illness had taken all the energy she had to give, and she wanted nothing more than to collapse into a lump on the couch and never get up. Even the thought of putting slices of meat and cheese between bread seemed daunting.

So when Lachlan suggested that they order a pizza instead, she could have wept. He produced a menu from a drawer in the kitchen, and they perused it together on the couch. They hit a roadblock when they couldn’t agree on toppings.

“ _ Pineapple _ ?” Belle asked incredulously. “Don’t you know there’s an enzyme in pineapple that digests your mouth while you eat it? Call me crazy, but I refuse to eat something that eats me back.”  _ With maybe one exception _ , her filthy mind helpfully supplied. Truthfully she didn’t mind pineapple; she just thought it had no business being on a pizza.

Lachlan jostled her shoulder playfully with his own. “Please. You want mushrooms on yours. I don’t think I need to mention the shite they eat. Oh, wait -  _ I just did. _ ”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“Thanks, I thought so.” With a smirk he got up to put the menu away. “I’ll put the order in for two smalls. Wouldn’t want any of my delicious paradise fruit to get on your fungus.”

“Smartarse.”

While Lachlan called in the order from the kitchen, Belle slipped quietly into the bathroom to change into a simple, royal blue cotton dress. Just to get comfortable, of course. That was all. She only wore jeans when she was cleaning; she found denim to be too stiff and unyielding for true comfort. She much preferred the freedom of skirts, or the coziness of leggings or pajama pants. And she might as well let her hair down from its tight ponytail, while she was at it. A quick assessment in the mirror wasn’t very encouraging. She hadn’t bothered packing her makeup - fear for Lachlan’s health had been at the forefront of her mind at the time - so with nothing to cover the pallor of her cheeks or the dark circles under her eyes, she looked just as exhausted as she felt. Her lower lip was chapped, and the exertion of scrubbing all day had reduced her glossy curls to a frizzy mess. But she was just getting comfortable, she reminded herself.

Lachlan was waiting for her on the couch when she got out. “Should be here in - oh.” His eyes softened as he drank her in. “You’re beautiful,” he sighed. He looked down at himself with a grimace. “I should—“

“No - no. You look lovely.” And he did, despite everything. The few days’ worth of beard growth on his angular face suited him well, and his sleepy smile was no less striking than his usual lopsided grin. He looked even more worn out than she felt, and she kicked herself internally. She shouldn’t have let him help her clean, but she’d hoped that if he had a small part in reclaiming his flat, it would do him some good. She vowed that tomorrow he wouldn’t have to lift a finger. 

They scrolled through Netflix while they waited for the food to arrive, taking the opportunity to learn what the other liked to watch. Belle obviously loved fantasy and adventure stories, though she could enjoy anything as long as it was well-written and acted. Lachlan enjoyed documentaries and action movies, though his absolute favorites were classic westerns. By the time the delivery driver arrived with their pizzas, they’d settled on a comedy they’d both seen before. Belle got plates and napkins while Lachlan paid the driver, and soon they were settled on the couch with only a hand’s breadth between them as they ate.

She watched him surreptitiously through the corner of her eye. The detox process was going better than she’d feared, but they weren’t out of the woods yet. His hands still shook badly every time he lifted a slice of pizza to his mouth, and if his small, ginger bites were any indication, he was still experiencing nausea. Unexpected noises made him jump, and his mood was subdued and somber when he wasn’t trying to bite her head off. Tomorrow would mark three days without a drink; if his health was going to take a downturn, it would be then. 

Soon they finished eating, and sat back to relax and watch the movie. Lachlan’s arm was slung casually over the back of the couch in a clear invitation. Did she dare? Desire warred with her insecurities. She wanted nothing more than to curl up at his side, breathing in his scent and feeling his warmth through his thin white T-shirt. But she couldn’t get Lacey out of her head, even though she objectively knew she was being stupid. He’d said her name when he was drunk and half asleep last Sunday. He’d called her yesterday in a moment of weakness. He’d told her flat out that he wanted her. But that insidious little voice at the back of her mind wouldn’t stop.

She inched closer until she was near enough to feel his body heat. He stayed perfectly still, muscles tense and eyes fixed on the telly. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached a hand out and laid it on his chest, just as she’d done last night as she read him to sleep. He grabbed her hand in his and pulled it away, and her heart sank in her chest. Before she could take it back, he raised it to his face, laid a kiss on the palm, and pressed it back on his sternum.

That kiss broke whatever spell was holding her in place, loosening iron bands around her heart she hadn’t even realized were there. Closing the distance between them, she curled up into his side and rested her head on his shoulder. The tension sapped out of Lachlan with a sigh. The hand draped over the couch came down to play lightly with her hair, every movement tickling her scalp pleasantly. She inhaled, breathing in the musky, spicy scent of him and letting it soothe her worries. 

As her eyes slipped closed, just for a few moments, she couldn’t help thinking: this was right. This was perfect.

******

“Belle, love, time to wake up.” Lachlan shook the beautiful brunette awake as the credits rolled, chuckling at her cranky groan. She’d slept through the entire movie without waking once. He himself had come close to nodding off a few times, but it seemed his body had other ideas. Every time he came close to entering a light doze, his entire body  _ jerked _ with a sudden burst of adrenaline that brought him back to full alertness.

It seemed he was in for a long night. Fucking perfect.

Belle sat up, yawning and stretching, and already he missed the warmth of having her tucked against him. “Time is it?” she mumbled.

“Gone eight.”

She started at that. “I slept through the whole movie? Why didn’t you wake me?” she demanded.

He shrugged, pushing down a surge of annoyance. He wasn’t mad at her; he knew that. It was just the headache and irritability that made him want to take offense at every little thing. “You needed to sleep,” he said, smiling when she yawned again. “And you still do. Come on - we could both use an early night.” With that, he shooed her off to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

While she changed into her pajamas, he shucked his jeans and settled on the couch for the night. There was no sense having Belle try to sleep on the godawful thing again. Sleep clearly wasn’t going to be an option for him tonight. Besides, with the way his stomach was churning, there was a decent chance he’d need to dash to the toilet to purge his dinner before the night was out.

“What are you doing?”

Lachlan looked over his shoulder to see Belle ready for bed. She looked sweetly sexy in her buttery yellow pajama pants and matching tank top, her hair tied in a loose braid. She also looked irritated.

“Taking the couch,” he replied, pulling the blanket snugly around him. “You need to rest.”

“And you need it more than I do,” she argued, hands on her hips.

“Well, I’m already here, and you can’t make me move,” he challenged.

A sly gleam shone in her eye, and for a moment he thought she’d call his bluff and drag him from the couch. But no - instead she knelt down on the thankfully clean carpet.

“Belle, what are you doing?”

She winked saucily at him. “Either you’re getting into that bed, or neither of us is. So if you don’t give up the couch, I have to sleep on the floor.”

“What? It’s still damp!”

“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing the weather is warm, so I don’t catch a chill.”

Lachlan quickly weighed his options. Belle deserved to have a bed to sleep on after everything she’d done - and continued to do - for him. But when it came to caring for him, she was stubborn. She would never take the bed and let him sleep on the couch.

There was only one thing he could do.

“All right, you impossible woman,” he grumped half-heartedly. She snickered at being so addressed. “If I promise to behave myself, will you share the bed?” he asked. Not that there was much risk of him doing otherwise. As much as he’d like nothing more than to bury himself in her as deep as he could get, he felt like death warmed over. At this point, he wasn’t sure he could perform if he tried.

Belle had a look on her face like she was going to say something naughty, but thought better of it, blushing and lowering her eyes shyly. “Okay,” she said quietly.

Lachlan took a deep breath, trying to quell the irritation churning in his gut. Since sleep hadn’t been an option, he’d spent the past hour vacillating between basking in the warmth of the petite librarian curled so trustingly at his side, and stewing in anger. He knew he was mostly just being pissy because he desperately wanted a drink, but that knowledge only angered him more.

What really frustrated him now was how skittish Belle was around him now. When it came to taking care of him, she took charge like she was born to the role. But as soon as he tried to get closer to her, she flinched away like a dog expecting to be kicked. Just getting her to curl up next to him had taken nearly twenty minutes of sitting perfectly still and avoiding eye contact. It felt like trying to get a bird to eat out of his hand, where one wrong move would send her fleeing.

He missed  _ his _ Belle, the one he’d come to know and care for. The one whose sweet smiles had a mischievous edge. He missed her impatience, her passion, and the way she honestly expressed her desires without demanding them. He loved those things about her. She wasn’t meant to be this achingly shy and insecure any more than he was meant to be a drunken arsehole. If she could help him through his shite, maybe he could help her through hers.

He had to get her back, and soon. Every time she looked at him with those wary eyes, he desperately wanted to lash out at something. 

They needed to talk. And they would, tomorrow - his mood be damned. But for now, Belle looked nearly asleep on her feet.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the doorway. “Time for bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: Belle is not exaggerating when she says that quitting alcohol cold turkey can be dangerous, even deadly. I do not recommend doing what Lachlan is doing without medical intervention. But this is a story and I am a slut for the "taking care of a sick loved one" trope.
> 
> Okay, so the original plan was to have the whole weekend be one single chapter, but this was already running pretty long, so I'm splitting it in two. I'd rather do that thank skimp on something that deserves attention.


	12. Confide In Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So I'll be taking a bit of a break from this story. Between being cooped up in the house for six months, immersing myself in the angst, and literally spending every free moment (and lots of time I should be doing other things) writing, I've overstressed myself. I'm going to take a couple of days to stop writing, and then I want to spend some time on my two side fics because I'm not as emotionally invested in them. I'll probably have another chapter ready in... I dunno, two, three weeks? This will also give me some time to figure out where this is going next.

Belle shifted in bed with a happy sigh, snuggling deeper into the warmth of the bed. She’d never had such a nice-smelling pillow before, or one with such a soft cover. It was a bit bonier than she was used to, and a few stray hairs tickled her nose, but she’d never felt so snug and secure. Safe.

Except pillows didn’t have bones.

Blinking her eyes blearily open, Belle took in Lachlan’s scruffy face, mere inches away from her own. She must have rolled onto him at some point in the night, she realized with some embarrassment. His heat bled through the soft, worn cotton of his T-shirt, tempting her to simply let her eyes flutter shut and drift back to sleep. But the sun was peeking through the blinds. She really should get up. But… maybe not for a few more minutes.

She took mental stock of herself. She was sprawled half on top of Lachlan, with her head on his shoulder and a hand on his chest. Her tank top was rucked up under her breasts, and a warm hand was pressed to her back. More intriguing than that was the thigh pressed snugly between her own, pushing deliciously up against her core. This was more or less the exact position she’d found herself in on the night of their second date, before Lacey’s call had interrupted them. Before things had changed 

That was a sobering thought. No matter how much she tried, she just couldn’t get Lacey out of her head. There was a rational part of Belle’s mind that knew she was being ridiculous. Lachlan was here with  _ her _ . Not her sister. He turned to  _ her  _ when he needed help. He wanted to share intimate details of his life, like his daughter, with  _ her. _ He wanted to cuddle and watch movies with her, even with sex completely off the table. She understood that. So why wouldn’t terror release her heart from its icy grip?

Besides, even if she had the courage to wake Lachlan the way she had a few weeks ago, he needed his rest. He looked drawn and pale even in sleep, the creases around his eyes more pronounced than usual. As she watched, his eyes rolled rapidly behind his closed lids as his brow furrowed in a troubled frown. Slow, soothing strokes of her hand on his chest had a tranquilizing effect, lulling him to a more restful state. Once she was sure he wouldn’t wake, she carefully extricated herself from his limbs and climbed out of bed, ready to start her day.

Once she was dressed, she got to work chopping vegetables for breakfast. After seeing how he’d struggled with yesterday’s oatmeal, she figured something that could be speared on a fork might be a bit easier for him. A veggie omelet, oven-roasted potatoes and fresh fruit should be nourishing enough, hopefully without being too heavy for his stomach to handle. Once done, she moved the vegetables and potatoes to the fridge. Once Lachlan was rested, she could quickly whip up breakfast for both of them.

That left her with an unknown amount of time to kill, and nothing to do. Nothing, that is, except to clean. She hadn’t so much as touched the kitchen or bathroom yesterday. Those, at least, didn’t seem to need too much in the way of maintenance. It wouldn’t take terribly long to have them scrubbed to a mirror shine. If she was quick about it, she could probably get both done before Lachlan woke up. Maybe she couldn’t measure up to Lacey’s liveliness and charisma, but this was something she was good at. She hoped it would be enough.

******

Lachlan cracked an eye open with a groan. God, what he wouldn’t give for a full night’s sleep. He’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, desperately chasing sleep, only to twitch himself awake every time he dozed. He hadn’t fallen asleep until sometime after four, an hour or so after Belle had rolled onto him in her sleep, pinning him under her comforting weight. He felt like he could sleep for another fifty years, but his bladder was protesting the late morning hour. 

Belle was, unsurprisingly, not in bed with him, and he swallowed his irritation at that. Of course she didn’t owe him her presence in his bed, and he’d never insist that she lie around doing nothing until he finally woke up. But just once, it would be nice to wake up to her warmth, for her blue eyes to be the first thing he saw. He could think of no better way to start his day.

But that wasn’t how today was going to start, it seemed. But at least his headache wasn’t as bad as it had been yesterday. It still hurt, but his head no longer felt like it was about to split apart. He got up with a pained grimace, dressing in one of his nicer button-down shirts and jeans. He hadn’t forgotten his resolution to have a talk with Belle today, and figured it couldn’t hurt if he made an effort not to look like a slob. First things first: he had a date with comb, toothbrush and razor.

He was so focused on getting to the bathroom that he didn’t even notice Belle’s absence from the living room. He did, however, notice the astringent smell of cleaning products in the bathroom. Sure enough, the room had been scrubbed top to bottom. The woman was absolutely relentless. He did what he could to make himself semi-presentable - doing his damndest to ignore the lines in his face and the ever-encroaching gray hairs that overtook more and more of his natural brown every day - and wiped down the sink when he was done. By some miracle, he’d even managed to keep his shaking hands steady enough to shave without cutting himself. 

Next step: Find Belle. Not exactly a hard task, that. She wasn’t in the bedroom, living room, or bathroom, so she had to be in the kitchen. To his utter lack of surprise, he found her on her knees, scrubbing the cabinets. The counters and floors hadn’t been that bad before she got to them, but now they practically gleamed. She must not have heard him come in, because her back stayed turned to him. She paused in her work to straighten her back, flexing her shoulders with a pained hiss.

He had to put a stop to this. It was bad enough that she’d taken time off work to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn’t bite the big one. Worse that she was caring for him like a sick child. But he couldn’t just sit by and continue to watch her work herself to the bone doing something he should have long since done himself.

Not trusting himself to keep from snapping at her, he settled for a simple solution: plucking the scrub brush from her hand, snatching up the bucket of soapy water by the handle, and dumping both in the sink.

“Hey!” Belle leapt to her feet, rounding on him angrily. “I wasn’t finished!”

“No, I think you've done enough,” he growled. “Look at yourself! You’re running yourself ragged. You need to  _ stop. _ ”

“I don’t mind--”

“But I do, dammit!” he yelled, immediately regretting it. He wasn’t trying to start a fight, but he was so fucking raw that he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He tried taking deep breaths to calm himself down. It didn’t help.

To her credit, Belle didn’t cringe away from him, or rise to the bait. “You don’t need to,” she insisted. “I needed something to do while you slept, and I saw something that needed doing.”

Her unending patience with him only pissed him off more. “That’s bollocks and you know it! You brought books. You could’ve put a movie on, or listened to music. Hell, you could’ve woken my arse up to help you!”

“You need to rest!” she snapped back, tugging her rubber gloves off and smacking them down on the counter.

That seemed to get her temper up. Interesting. “And you don’t? You look like you haven’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks!” She opened her mouth to argue, but he pressed on. “You take time out of work to help me sober up, and that’s already a full time fucking responsibility. I didn’t ask you here to be an unpaid, live-in maid!”

“You didn’t ask me here at all,” she retorted, her face reddening. “I came because I wanted to help.”

“And that’s exactly the problem!” She frowned at him, hurt, and he hastened to elaborate. “Not that you’re here. Never that. But you don’t have to do every-bloody-thing for me!”

Her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something, but snapped shut. She frowned at the floor, her cheeks darkening in embarrassment. 

“What?” he asked. She shook her head, pressing her lips together. “Belle…” He yanked a chair away from the kitchen table, whipping it around so it faced her. Sitting down, he raked both hands agitatedly through his hair. “What are we doing?” he finally asked.

“What do you mean?” She was giving him that wary look again, like a frightened animal debating whether to flee from a threat.

God, she was really going to make him spell it out, wasn’t she? He’d been dreading this conversation, but he couldn’t put it off for another second. This dance between them was wearing on him; he didn’t know half the steps, and was getting sick of them stepping on each other’s toes. “I mean are we friends? Casually dating? Acquaintances who slept together once before calling it quits?” Her look of utter misery at the last was heartening. “Or do you want to see where this thing between us is going?”

She nodded. “I want that,” she said softly, pink cheeks bringing out the blue in her hopeful eyes.

“Then  _ talk to me. _ ” His eyes held hers beseechingly. “I’m trying to understand - I’m trying so fucking hard! - but I’m not a mind reader. How am I supposed to do  _ anything _ for you when you won’t tell me anything?”

“I don’t need you to do anything,” Belle said quickly.

“Right, so you’ll do the cooking and cleaning, support my sobriety, and still work full-time, and I’ll… what? Sit around, look pretty, and put out occasionally?” He snorted derisively. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m not nearly bonny enough to be a trophy wife.”

Instead of looking offended or annoyed, as he expected, she just looked confused. “What else do I have to offer?”

Lachlan gaped at her. Her tone didn’t have the insecurity of a woman looking for reassurance. If anything, she sounded matter-of-fact, like her utter lack of value outside of servitude was the most obvious thing in the world. “Belle…” He cut himself off. He didn’t want to have this conversation in the kitchen, with all this distance between them. He stood up, dusting his hands off on his jeans and tilting his head toward the living room. “Come on. Couch.”

Once in the living room, he settled down on the far end of the couch, smiling softly when she curled up next to him without hesitation. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. He took a few moments to just enjoy the feel of her warm, soft curves pressed against him, inhaling the delicate floral fragrance of her hair. Belle’s face was buried in the side of his neck, her slow breaths tickling where neck met shoulder.

How had he  _ missed _ this so much? They’d done precious little cuddling over the course of their acquaintance, but those few times were enough to have him utterly hooked to the feeling of her body pressed to his. Her downy warmth and sweet scent soothed even as they inflamed. His cock twitched hopefully in his jeans, only too happy to remind him that the first time they’d held each other on a couch had led to mind-blowingly good sex, and it would be only too happy for an encore. He pushed the urge down ruthlessly. They had to talk.

Problem was, he had no idea what to  _ say. _ Belle was starting - slowly, so slowly - to open up to him, but he was aware that there were huge gaps in his knowledge. How was he supposed to know what to say, where to even start, when he had no idea what he was dealing with? He wasn’t a bloody therapist.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. Arianwen’s therapist asked questions to get to the heart of an issue. It worked on Arianwen. It worked on him. Maybe it would work with Belle. It couldn’t hurt, at any rate.

“What did you mean, in the kitchen?” he asked. He trailed his fingertips lightly over her upper arm.

Belle squirmed uncomfortably against him. “I guess… this is something I’m good at. Taking care of people. Something I know I can do better than Lacey.”

Lachlan bit back an irritated sigh. Lacey again. Did  _ everything _ come back to Lacey? “You know I’m not interested in her, right? You don’t need to compete with her. There’s no contest.”

“I guess.” She hesitated, then nodded. A stray curl tickled his nose with the movement. “I do know,” she said with a little more confidence. “It’s just hard to remember, sometimes.”

“Hmm. Guess I’ll just have to make a habit of reminding you, then,” he teased.

Belle lifted her head from his shoulder, her face inches away from his. “And how are you going to do that?” she asked, her eyes straying lower to linger on his lips.

It would be so easy to lean down, cross those few centimeters, and capture her lips with his own. He wanted nothing more than to delve in and taste the sweetness of her mouth, to strip every stitch off her and feel her writhe against him. But he had this nagging feeling that they weren’t done talking. 

“Oh, I have a few ideas,” he said, pulling back a little and chuckling at her disappointed pout. To make up for it, his hand delved into the curls at the back of her head, scratching slow circles that made her head flop bonelessly back down to his shoulder with a contented murmur. That bought him a bit of time to think of what to ask next. Christ, he was utter crap at this. Still, even if nothing came out of this, if it kept her talking he’d chalk it up as a win. “Is that what you do with everyone you care about? Take care of them, try to fix their problems?”

Belle didn’t say anything for a while. If the flat weren’t so quiet, he’d think she didn’t hear him. Finally, she said, “Well, of course. When you love someone, you do things for them. You put their needs first. That’s… just what you  _ do. _ ” 

“Even when helping isn’t helping?”

Belle pulled back, frowning in confusion. “What do you mean?” she asked uncertainly.

Now they were getting somewhere. Maybe he wasn’t as terrible at this as he thought. “Like in the kitchen. Why was it so important to clean up when you knew I didn’t want you to? How do you know you’re doing the right thing?” 

“‘The right thing?’” She smiled at him strangely. “It’s just cleaning a kitchen, not some complex moral quandary.”

She wasn’t getting it, and he didn’t know how to explain it clearly without getting into specifics. Unfortunately for him, he’d never been very good at hypotheticals. If he wanted to get his point across, he’d have to draw from his own life. Which meant revealing more of what a selfish arsehole he was.

Fuck. At this rate, he’d be confessing every last fuckup he’d ever committed. It’d be a miracle if Belle could still stand to look at him by the time the weekend was up. The idea that she might look at him with scorn, or worse, turn and walk out of his life without a backward glance, terrified him.

He tried to convince himself that she already knew the worst thing he’d ever done. What were a few DUIs next to killing his brother? But she hated drunk driving. It was possible that this would permanently alter her impossibly good opinion of him. But fuck it. If they were going to do this thing, she was going to find out eventually. 

“Come here?” he requested softly, rearranging them so he was lying on the couch with her nestled into his chest. Her comforting weight helped to ground him. It also kept him from looking her in the eye. He was holding onto his courage by his fingernails, and was afraid that the first sight of her disapproval would make it vanish in a puff of smoke. “I think I should tell you about my deportation.”

******

Belle lay quietly on Lachlan’s chest, patiently waiting for him to continue. In a way, this was so much more intimate than learning of his brother’s death. That night had obviously impacted him in ways that still affected him to this day. It probably even colored the story she was about to hear. But there was a difference between unwillingly confessing one’s deepest secret while in the throes of a panic attack, and willingly baring one’s soul. She wasn’t sure what his deportation had to do with her cleaning the kitchen, but right now that didn’t matter.

“I told you I got a DUI while I was in California,” he began. She nodded. She couldn’t lie to herself; it disappointed her that he’d driven drunk. But that was before they’d met, and he was trying to change now. She could forgive his mistakes, as long as he learned from them. “I had a few too many, and told myself I was good to drive. Stupid fucking thing to do,” he lamented quietly. “I got pulled over, and next thing I knew, Immigration was looking to deport me for a decades-old possession charge.” His grip tightened around her shoulders. By instinct, she laid one hand on his chest, caressing in slow circles. “I’ll spare you the details, but… let’s just say that driving drunk wasn’t the last stupid thing I did. I did a lot of things I’m ashamed of. I lashed out at a lot of people. Let others down. Drove some away.”

He was quiet for a long time. His hands shook where they rested on her shoulders, whether from nerves or withdrawal she couldn’t tell. “Why?” she finally prompted.

“I was angry,” he admitted. “Fucking  _ furious _ that I was being sent back home. I didn’t want to be here. I still don’t. In America, I could fade into obscurity. Here… people know my face, even after decades. They bring up Jed like they’re talking about a football loss, and not…” His voice choked off, thickening with tears. Belle’s eyes filled in sympathy. “To then it’s just this… this vaguely sad thing that happened. Rangers lost a game. Concert got rained out. Jed MacAldonich died of a drug overdose. But  _ he was my brother! _ ”

Lachlan dissolved into tears, each silent sob shaking Belle slightly. She held her own tears in by a hair’s breadth, her heart breaking for Lachlan all over again. She held onto him tightly, wishing she weren’t so helpless. She could do so little. She couldn’t change what had happened. She couldn’t take away his pain. All she could do was wrap her arms around him while he shattered, until he was ready to piece himself back together.

She hoped that would be enough.

Something warm and wet hit the top of her head - tears, she realized. She held onto him for several minutes, murmuring reassurances and nonsense while he shook underneath her. His arms crushed her to his chest. Gradually his crying slowed to nothing, resolving with a great, shuddering sigh. 

“Well, that didn’t help my bloody headache,” he grumbled after a few more minutes.

“Do you need me to get you a pain pill?” Belle asked. She made a move to get up, but Lachlan’s arms held her in place.

“No, no. I was trying to make a point, and got wrapped up in my own shite.” He snorted self-deprecatingly. “Story of my life, that.”

Craning her neck to look up at him, she reached a hand up and flicked him lightly on the nose. “Get to it, then,” she chided jokingly.

“Yes, boss,” he agreed with a put-upon expression. He sobered, and continued his tale. “I was  _ desperate _ not to come back. I tried everything: hiring lawyers I couldn’t afford, begging for loans I’d never be able to pay back… and eventually, calling my ex-wife.”

“Catherine,” Belle recalled.

“Catherine,” he confirmed. “I called her, and met up with her and Arianwen for the first time in over ten years. Ten years, and I was so wrapped up in myself that I didn’t even ask a thing about her. Just showed up, hungover and full of regrets from the previous night, and asked them to lie to immigration so I could stay.”

He was full of anxious energy now: fingers tapping against her shoulder, one leg jostling her lightly as it bounced up and down. “Lachlan…”

He cut her off. “I know. I know! I fucked up. I was a selfish bawbag who couldn’t take two minutes to ask after my own family. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

Belle frowned. She hadn’t said anything of the sort. “So what happened?” she asked. “Did Catherine do it?”

He snorted again. “Turned me down flat is what she did. And that’s the point I wanted to make. Even though we took the scenic route to get there.”

“Um… I don’t understand,” she confessed.

Lachlan chuckled. “Guess I didn’t explain myself, did I?” he asked rhetorically. “Look, if Catherine had done what I asked, and lied to ICE, it would’ve gone one of two ways. Best case scenario, I might’ve gotten a ridiculously gullible judge who actually believed us. I’d still be in California, yeah - surrounded by all the bridges I’d burned. Maybe I’d be talking to Arianwen. Or maybe not.” He raised one hand in a “who knows” gesture. “Worst case scenario, ICE would have caught us in a lie. I’d’ve been sent back here anyway, and Catherine would be in god knows what kind of trouble.” He took her chin in one hand, tilting her head so she was looking at him. “Point being, sometimes helping isn’t… helping. I mean…” He scowled, searching for the right words. “If you just pick up someone’s messes every time they fuck up, they never have to deal with the fallout. Some people need a swift kick in the arse to knock some sense into them.”

“I see.” And she did. As he said, he’d taken a roundabout way to get there, but he’d given her a lot to think about. About him. About the two of them, and where she hoped things would go. And maybe about herself, as well. 

She also understood why he’d been anxious to tell her about this. A lot of what he’d told her was… not ideal. He’d done stupid, rash, and selfish things. But he was trying to change. Just as important, he owned up to what he’d done, without her having to ask. There was a difference between trying to force a man to change, and helping a man change when he put the effort in on his own. 

He was looking at her now, a guarded expression on his face. His eyes, still red-rimmed from crying, had the guilty-yet-hopeful look of a dog who had dug up a flower garden, and wasn’t sure whether he’d been caught. That, at least, was something she could fix. Pushing herself up onto her forearms, she leaned forward and caught his lips with hers. He sucked a surprised breath in through his nose. His shock didn’t last long, though; he plunged his fingers into her hair with a soft groan, anchoring her in place. Not that she planned to go anywhere. As far as she was concerned, there was no place she’d rather be.

Neither made any move to deepen the kiss, perfectly content for now to sip slowly at each other’s lips, reacquainting themselves with each other’s taste. Even so, the blood sang through Belle’s veins, thrumming under her skin until she was aching to be touched - anywhere, everywhere. She pulled back reluctantly, her lips sliding wetly from his, and gauged his reaction.

Warm brown eyes met hers. His tongue darted out to lick his lips; her eyes were drawn to the movement. “What was that for?” he asked hoarsely.

“For confiding in me,” she murmured, giving him another lingering kiss. “For being too damn sexy for your own good.” She sucked his lower lip between her own, letting her teeth scrape lightly against it. His hips twitched against hers in response. “But mostly just because I want to.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he mumbled against her lips, before putting them to much better use.

Lachlan tugged her head closer, and Belle melted into him with a sigh. They kept their explorations slow, shallow and unhurried, their touches meant to soothe more than excite. Not that it helped. The taste of him on her lips, the slight rasp of his stubble against her chin, and the distracting way his fingers scratched gently at the back of her head had her pulse throbbing insistently between her thighs, and it was all she could do to keep herself from rubbing herself demandingly against him. If the stirring in his jeans was any indication, he was having the same difficulty. 

His stomach, apparently, had other ideas. It rumbled loudly, and Belle giggled when she felt the vibration against her own middle. She pulled away with one last pecking kiss. “Hungry?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she pushed herself off of him and back to her feet.

He let her go with a grumble. “My stomach might be trying to gnaw its way through my spine and out my back,” he admitted.

“Well, we can’t have that. Come on - I’ll make breakfast. Or maybe brunch, at this point.” Taking his hand, she dragged him with her to the kitchen.

******

Lachlan resisted the urge to squirm. He was lying on his back on the couch, with Belle reclining on top of him. His legs were spread so she could nestle comfortably between them, her head pillowed on his chest. With his arms wrapped loosely around her waist, he idly traced random patterns on her belly with his fingers. This would be a perfectly cozy position, if it weren’t for the spring digging into his left arsecheek.

He wasn’t sure if it was the story of his last days in California, or his efforts to get Belle to just  _ relax _ for a few minutes, or her taking the reins and kissing him, but something had dispelled most of the awkwardness between them. After breakfast, he couldn’t convince her to leave the dishes for later, but she at least let him help by drying them. Baby steps. Once that was done, they curled up on the couch together while Belle read a few more chapters from her  _ Hobbit _ book. He could see why she found it relaxing; listening to her read was incredibly soothing. Maybe it was the way the author wrote, or maybe it was Belle’s voice reading the words on the page. The story itself wasn’t bad, either, though he hoped he wasn’t supposed to remember which dwarf was which. Dwalin, Balin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur? What sort of numpty named all their characters similar names?

Once her voice started going hoarse, Lachlan offered to throw on some of his favorite albums. Belle had readily agreed, and settled the two of them on the couch like this. When the first album ended, Belle insisted on getting him something to drink - but he managed to talk her into getting him water instead of one of those disgusting sports drinks. While she fetched that, he put on an album by The Smiths - Jed’s favorite growing up. He hadn’t given it a listen in years. Hearing the familiar strains play over his speakers was bittersweet. Thinking about Jed still hurt, and probably always would. But it was nice to remember better times, before they’d ever gotten the harebrained scheme to fuck off to Manchester.

For the first half of the album, Belle’s feet wiggled happily to the beat, her raspberry painted toenails shining with each move. They were still now, though, and her hands fidgeted where they rested on her chest. He was willing to bet his entire collection of rare vinyls that she was biting her lower lip.

As the final chords of the last song faded to silence, neither of them made any effort to move.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he remarked.

She came back to herself, inhaling deeply through her nose. “Am I? I’m sorry. I was just… thinking.”

He hummed absently. Her shirt had ridden up just a bit, exposing a strip of milky white skin that his fingers were helpless to resist caressing. His hands, tanned from so many years working under the hot California sun, stood out sharply from her pale stomach. He found he fancied the contrast. “Anything interesting?”

“I…” She swallowed audibly. “You’ve confided in me so much this weekend - things that I know took a lot of courage to talk about. I guess part of me is trying to find the courage to do the same. And part of me thinks I shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I don’t want to do anything that’s going to mess up your recovery.”

He rolled his eyes with a sigh. Of course she put his needs over her own. They’d really have to break that habit at some point. “Do you plan on writing each word at the bottom of a shot glass?” he asked.

“What? Of course not.”

“Then I think I’ll manage,” he said wryly. “Look, don’t feel like you have to tell me things just because I have. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit of a fucking wreck, and talking gets some of that out of my system. I  _ want _ to know more about you. But if this is just tit-for-tat sharing, and you don’t actually want to, then don’t bother.”

He waited a few minutes, but Belle didn’t say anything. Lachlan couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed, and maybe a little frustrated. He was baring everything to her - granted, some of it against his will, but still - and she wasn’t giving him anything in return. But he’d told her that she didn’t have to. He just had to be fine with that. His hands strayed up her shirt just a little, caressing the soft skin of her belly to show there were no hard feelings.

Well. Minimal hard feelings, at any rate.

“I told you about my parents’ flower shop, right?”

Her words so surprised him that he had to take a minute to think. “You mentioned it at your flat, aye,” he recalled. “You said you used to help out there sometimes.”

“I hated it,” she confessed. “I  _ loathed _ working at that stupid flower shop. Lacey and I both did. The shop didn’t make enough money to afford another worker, so we had to pick up the slack. We were expected to head straight home from school every day to help out, and work there every Saturday. We never got to hang out with friends outside of school, because we were always working.”

She paused. Lachlan said nothing, waiting for her to continue. This had to be hard for her to talk about. He’d let her set the pace.

“When we were thirteen, Lacey’s grades started slipping, so she got out of working at the shop so she could get extra tutoring.” Her voice remained low, but was gradually increasing in intensity as she told her tale. “I was so  _ angry. _ I didn’t have Lacey’s artistic talent, but I was good at school. So when my parents let her off the hook because she was struggling, it felt like a slap in the face. I thought, why is she the one being rewarded when I’m doing everything right? Why do I have to work twice as hard when I’m the one pulling my own weight? When I tried to say something to my parents, I just got a line about how we all need to do our share, or something. I don’t really remember. I just remember going to our room that night, thinking that if mum and dad understood what it felt like to be left with all the work, maybe they’d see where I was coming from.”

Sometime during her speech, Belle had started trembling slightly, as though she were cold. Lachlan raised his knees so he could surround her legs with his own, and wrapped his arms tighter around her waist. She was so wrapped up in her story, though, that she didn’t seem to notice.

“I got my chance a week before Valentine’s day - one of the busiest times of year for a florist,” she explained as an aside. “My grandmum, who lived in Canberra, took a nasty fall and was sent to the hospital. Mum went there to stay for a few days, to make sure she was okay and take care of granddad.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “A boy asked me out on a date the Saturday before Valentine’s day. It was just me and dad in the shop all week, and we were swamped with orders. I was tired, and frustrated, and just wanted to do something fun. So I said yes, and on Friday night I told dad I wouldn’t be helping him on Saturday. He was  _ furious _ \- tried to ground me for a month. I told him that no matter what he did, I wouldn’t be helping in the shop on Saturday, and on top of it as long as I was grounded, I wouldn’t so much as touch a sprig of baby’s breath. So he said I could go. I figured maybe he’d appreciate me more once he saw how much help I was.

“I… I didn’t know he called mum.” Her voice sounded so small and lost that he wanted to wrap her in a dozen blankets until her worsening tremors finally stopped. He had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly where this story was going. He didn’t know what to do. Telling this story was clearly hurting her, but stopping her might hurt more.

He would just have to trust that she knew her limits.

“So I met the boy at the theater at noon, and we caught a movie.” After a beat of silence, she chuckled mirthlessly. “Know what’s funny? I couldn’t tell you a single thing about that date. Not the boy’s name, or what he looked like, or what movie we watched. You’d think… after what I wound up giving up to go on that date, I’d at least have a memory or two.

“I got home, and the shop was closed. I marched up to our flat and saw dad slumped over the table. And like a total brat, I made some snide comment about how he couldn’t handle it alone for  _ one day _ .” Belle was shaking so badly now that it felt like her bones were trying to rattle out of her skin. Helplessly, Lachlan tightened his grip around her, wishing he knew what the hell to  _ do. _ “He looked at me, and he was crying. I’d… I’d never seen him cry before. And then he told me that mum had left Canberra late last night, and she never made it home.” Her next words confirmed Lachlan’s fears. “She was… hit. By a drunk driver. A hit and run. They didn’t even find her until late that morning.” She swallowed hard, reaching one fumbling hand for his. He wrapped both of her hands in his own, chafing her icy fingers to encourage warmth back into the digits. “I traded my mum’s life for a day off and a mediocre date,” she whispered. “If I’d just worked harder, and done what I was supposed to…”

He couldn’t take this anymore. Belle was shaking so badly that he was having a hard time understanding her. He gave her a gentle nudge. “Come on. Up,” he encouraged. She frowned at him, but obeyed, letting him herd her to the bedroom like a lost lamb. He lay down on the bed, tugging Belle down until she was lying on her side next to him. Pulling the blankets over the both of them, he wrapped himself around her, hoping that maybe sharing his body heat would ease her shivering. She didn’t embrace him back. “Go on,” he encouraged.

Belle buried her face in his neck before continuing. Her voice was a little muffled, but he could still understand her. “Dad and Lacey both fell apart,” she said. “Lacey shut herself in our room and just… did nothing. She didn’t go to school. She stopped painting and sculpting. Most days I had to bring her food, or she wouldn’t eat. And dad… started drinking. I mean, he had a few beers most nights, but now he always had a drink in his hand. At first it was just a couple nights a week, but after a while it was every night. Most nights he couldn’t even make it to bed without help.” Her arms came around him then, her hands fisting the soft cotton of his T-shirt as she pulled him even closer. “So I did my best to hold us together. I took care of dad when he was drunk, and bullied Lacey into going back to school. I cooked and cleaned, and took odd jobs to keep food on the table when dad drank away every bit of money that didn’t go toward bills.”

“That was a lot for a teenager to deal with,” he observed quietly. He did a quick mental calculation. When he’d been that age, he and Jed were living it up in Manchester, working under the table to keep a roof over their heads while they took in the music scene. Their lives couldn’t have been more different.

“What else could I do?” she asked helplessly. “It was my fault mum was gone. If I’d just done my part, without complaint, she’d still be here. I  _ had _ to make up for that as much as I could. I had to.”

He hummed in acknowledgement. Her shivering was finally subsiding. He laid a kiss on the top of her head, letting his fingers trail up and down her back in long, sweeping motions. “How long did this go on?” 

“Um… ten, eleven years? By that time, Lacey was drinking, too. I lived at home while I went to college so I could take care of them when I wasn’t studying. Finally, once I got my Master’s, I just… needed to get away. So I moved here six years ago.” She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. “Dad died two years later. Liver failure. I got home just in time to say goodbye.” A long pause. Then, in a quieter voice: “Maybe… maybe if I’d just stayed…”

“You can’t think like that,” he interrupted. “Belle, I realize I’m no expert in staying sober, but I’ve been there. He had to want to stop drinking. There was  _ nothing _ you could have done.” 

“I could’ve tried harder—“

“No! This was on him.  _ Not you. _ He put you in an unfair position, making you parent him when you were still a kid.”

“But he was only that way because Mum died, and that was my fault.”

Lachlan pulled away. Or tried to, at last; Belle clung desperately to his shirt. “Hey.” He took her face in his hands, cupping her cheeks in his palms and tilting her toward him. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, she did. Her eyes were slightly red, but her face was completely dry. “It wasn’t your fault. You hear me? You didn’t put the bottle and keys in that idiot’s hands. You went on a date.  _ It wasn’t your fault. _ ”

He was tempted to make the comparison with his own biggest mistake. He’d brought the bad drugs to the recording studio. He’d hounded Jed into taking them. He’d neglected to get Jed to a hospital. He was guilty. Compared to that, Belle was utterly blameless in her mother’s death.

But this was about her, not him. He could stand to have a single damn conversation without making it all about him.

He wasn’t sure it would make much difference, anyway. Judging by her doubtful frown, she didn’t believe him. He wished he knew what he could say to convince her. But really, he was the  _ last _ person who could help her with her guilt. He still lived with his every day.

“Lachlan?” 

Belatedly, he realized that her shaking had started up again - not as bad as when she was telling her story, but still there. He leaned his forehead against hers, his thumbs skimming lightly over her cheekbones. “Aye?”

“The day my mum died was the worst day of my life. And seeing dad waste away on that hospital bed wasn’t any better. I try not to think about it, because it still hurts.” Beseeching blue eyes met his, begging him to understand. “I’m not trying to give an ultimatum. But Lachlan, I  _ can’t _ go through that again. I can’t have another person die in an easily avoidable accident, or slowly kill themselves, or become a different person.” She swallowed thickly, blinking tears back desperately. “I know it’s not fair for me to ask this, but if you’re serious about this… about me… I need you to do your best to stay sober. I need you to try.”

Lachlan nodded. After the story she told, he was expecting something like this. Honestly, he considered it a damn miracle that she’d given him the time of day at all while he was still drinking. “I get it.” He closed his eyes with a sigh, considering his next words. “I won’t lie. I want a drink. Even right now. Every waking moment, even when I’m doing something else, there’s this urge that I’m trying to ignore. But I’m going to do my damndest. I want to be a good dad. I want to get my shit together. For Arianwen, and - for you.” He left his last thought unspoken.  _ I just hope I’m strong enough. _

Before he could let himself get too mired in self-doubt, Belle lunged for him, coaxing his mouth open so her tongue could delve past his lips. He groaned at the taste of her, his hands tilting her head slightly so he could get a better angle. His head swam as their tongues tangled sensuously together in his mouth. Of their own volition, his hands slid back from her cheeks, delving into her chestnut curls and grazing against that spot on the back of Belle’s neck that made her shiver. It didn’t disappoint; with a low purr, she slung her leg over his hip, hooking her foot around his thigh to tug him closer.

Lachlan tugged himself free of her intoxicating lips, planting fluttery kisses down her jaw to buy himself time and a speck of sanity. God, this was really happening. He hadn’t dared to hope that sex would even be a remote possibility this weekend. Yesterday things had been so uncertain between them, and today was an emotional ordeal for them both. But they’d come out of everything stronger than before, and he wanted nothing more than to affirm that bond by getting as close to her as he could get.

Coaxing her onto her back, his eager lips traversed the smooth skin of her neck, mapping every sweet, salty inch. Sucking kisses at her pulse point had her throwing her head back, begging wordlessly for more with a low groan. Her pale skin pinkened slightly under his ministrations. It would fade in a few hours; that knowledge tempted him to suck her flesh into his mouth, to scrape his teeth until she was marked for all to see. Maybe another time, after they talked about it.

Belle’s legs spread under him, inviting him to settle between them. They both moaned; even through both of their jeans, the pressure relieved the throbbing ache building in his groin. Her hot little hands fluttered over his back before plunging under the hem of his shirt, skimming up his back as she bunched the material up around his shoulders.

“Off,” she demanded, yanking the shirt up over his head. Grudgingly he released her throat, taking the opportunity to tug her blouse off. Pushing himself up onto his hands, he took a moment to take her in. She lay flushed and panting beneath him, her hair already tousled where it spread on his pillow. Her flush traveled down from her face to her chest, painting her pale chest red before disappearing behind her tan cotton bra. 

Her hand came up to cup his cheek, her thumb playing with his lower lip, and he realized that she was staring at him while he ogled her. “Beautiful,” he growled.

“Gorgeous,” she panted, threading her fingers through his hair and pulling him back down to her.

Well, he couldn’t refuse such an invitation. This time he took control of the kiss, rubbing his chest against hers and luxuriating in the softness of her skin. Not to be outdone, she sucked his tongue into her scorching mouth, sending a bolt of pure pleasure and want straight to his cock. Powerless to resist, his hips jerked desperately against her, evoking a whimper and answering thrust from her. They ground eagerly against each other, the friction delicious even through two layers of denim, while Lachlan reached a hand behind Belle’s back for the clasp of her bra. The moment he had it undone, Belle wrenched her lips free so she could shrug out of the garment. Lachlan caught it as it fell, absentmindedly chucking it across the room. They’d find it later.

His hands gravitated toward her tits, their rounded softness fitting perfectly in his hands. He kissed his way back down her neck and further, lingering at her collarbone while his fingertips skimmed over the silky skin of her breasts, inching slowly closer to her rosy nipples. Sucking and nipping his way between her breasts, he finally let his fingers swirl around the pebbled flesh. Belle’s breath hissed between her teeth. Risking a glance up, he saw her eyes flicker between his face and his hands. Catching one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he pinched lightly, reveling in the desperate panting that passed through her lips. She arched her back, pleading for more.

“Harder, Lachlan,” she moaned. 

He obeyed without thought, pinching harder and rolling her nipple between his fingers. She keened desperately, bucking into him and rubbing herself shamelessly against his stomach. Unable to resist for another moment, he sucked her other nipple into his mouth, alternating between swirls of his tongue and light scrapes of his teeth.

In no hurry, Lachlan lingered over her breasts: pinching, licking, sucking, and tasting every last centimeter of skin. Eventually, though, Belle’s moans started to sound more pained than eager, indicating that it was time to move on. One hand slid down her soft belly, popping open the button of her jeans and pulling the zipper slowly down, giving her a chance to pump the brakes if she wanted. Far from wanting to stop, she raised her hips eagerly. Hooking his thumbs in her waistband, he divested her of both jeans and knickers, revealing her creamy, toned legs and glistening curls. God, he couldn’t wait to taste her again.

He kissed his way down her stomach, taking a slight detour to plant sucking kisses on each hip bone. Travelling lower, he bypassed her core altogether, kissing and licking his way around her inner thighs. Her juices had spread that far, and he lapped them up eagerly, her savor sharp and salty on his tongue. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, and it was all he could do not to lower his fly and bury himself in her right then and there. But there was one thing he wanted, first.

He continued to tease her mercilessly, tasting everywhere except right where she wanted him to go. Belle lifted her hips beseechingly, but he ignored it. Finally, with a frustrated growl, she threaded her fingers through his hair and guided his face to her slick cunt. Yes, that was what he wanted! To be desired, to be invited, to be accepted without questions or doubts. He took a brief moment to breathe her in, letting the scent of her arousal wash over him. The pain, the cravings, the mood swings and the sleep loss - they were all worth it for this moment. He’d happily drink only from her for as long as she let him.

He sipped lightly at her lips, her flavor exploding over his tongue, holding back a chuckle at her urgent moan. Taking pity on her, his tongue darted out to flicker briefly over her before retreating again. Eager for all she had to offer, he ran the flat of his tongue from her entrance up to her clit, his hands coming up to hold her hips still when they jolted in reaction.

He kept his movements deliberately slow, working her gradually but unhurriedly toward the peak. Chancing a glance at her face, he gasped raggedly at the sight that greeted him. Belle’s hands had abandoned his hair once he was right where she wanted him. Now they were dancing over her chest, pinching and plucking her nipples in time with his tongue’s movements.

He lifted his head from her just long enough to rasp, “God, yes, Beautiful. Touch those gorgeous tits for me.” Her hips bucked under him, and he made a mental note to explore dirty talk with her later. For now, his mouth was otherwise occupied. 

Returning to his task, he released his hold on one of her hips so he could slide two fingers into her molten heat. She clenched around him, and his cock twitched in envy. He continued to work her with lips, tongue and fingers, listening to her cries as she neared her climax. When she mewled urgently and her inner walls fluttered around his fingers, he focused his tongue on her clit, circling slowly around the bundle of nerves with just the tip.

She broke with a wordless cry, her cunt gripping his fingers as her hips ground against him in a desperate bid for more contact. Easing her through the aftershocks, he gradually slowed and lightened his touches until he was placing light, open-mouthed kisses on her curls.

Before he knew it, her fingers were back in his hair, tugging him back up. He wiped his face discreetly with the back of his hand just before her lips locked with his. He shouldn’t have worried; she plunged her tongue into his mouth eagerly, seemingly unbothered by her own taste. The shove she gave his shoulder did nothing to dislodge him, but he got the hint and flipped them over so she was straddling him. She continued to plunder him for several long minutes, only relenting when he whined pleadingly into her mouth.

“Your turn,” she whispered with a wolfish grin.

******

As Belle left a trail of open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, she discreetly checked to make sure she still had a hair elastic around her wrist. She had plans for that tempting bulge straining against Lachlan’s jeans, and didn’t want to stop to search for one.

Pushing the fringe back from his face, she laid a kiss on his silver sideburn before nibbling gently on his earlobe. He jerked his hips up into hers with a muffled curse. She dragged her tongue slowly around the rim of his ear, giggling at his breathly groan. He pushed his hips up insistently again, and Belle had to stifle a moan of her own as she ignored the heat building between her thighs. If she didn’t move on soon, she’d abandon her plans and give in to the urge to yank his jeans off, straddle him, and ride him until they were both breathless and satisfied.

But that wasn’t what she wanted, so she kissed her way down his neck to his chest to remove the temptation. She mapped the tanned, sparsely haired planes of his chest with hands, lips and tongue, loving the taste of him and the sounds she pulled from his throat. Unable to resist, her mouth took a detour to lave at the small brown peak of his nipple, reveling in his stuttering gasp. A few experimental touches revealed that his nipples were sensitive; he flinched away from the firm, not-quite-painful pinches she favored, but open-mouthed kisses and swirls of her tongue reduced him to a panting, quivering mess. After lavishing both with attention, she moved down the slightly concave curve of his stomach, one hand sliding lower to release his fly.

That got his attention. He stilled under her, his fingers sifting restlessly through the curls at her shoulders. “Belle,” he gasped, “what are you…?”

“You said I could last time,” she breathed, rearing up so she could tug his jeans down his legs. She took a moment to tie her hair back in a quick, messy bun. “You said, ‘whatever you want.’” She wrapped her hand around his hot, hard length, feeling him throbbing through the fabric of his boxers. He threw his head back with a strangled groan. “And I want.” Palming his cock, she ground the hell of her hand up and down his length. His eyes rolled in bliss.

“I -  _ fuck _ \- I’m not gonnae argue,” he ground out, lifting his hips so Belle could strip him of that one final barrier. 

Belle settled on her stomach between his legs, getting a good look at his cock for the first time, and her mouth watered at the sight of him. He stood at full attention, his length flushed red and the head nearly purple with arousal. He twitched under the weight of her gaze, and a bead of clear fluid formed at the tip. For a brief moment she quailed; she was out of practice, and worried that she might not measure up to past partners. But he was here with her, not them. Not Lacey. And he hadn’t had a complaint so far. She forcibly shoved those thoughts aside as best she could.

Unable to resist for another moment, she took him in hand, slowly running her tongue up the underside from base to tip. Groaning softly at the salt and musk of him, she swirled her tongue around his head, catching that small bead of precome and swallowing it down. Lachlan whined high in his throat. An upward flick of her gaze showed his eyes riveted on her, watching her every move.

Belle grinned saucily at him. So, he wanted a show, did he? She could give him a show. With a final swirl of her tongue, she rained sloppy, open-mouthed kisses up and down the sides of his shaft, alternating little licks just to keep him on his toes. She kept that up until his groans started to sound pained.

“Belle, please,” he begged.

Well. Since he asked nicely. She pulled back and blew a stream of cool air on his cock, which twitched eagerly as her saliva dried cold. So he liked cold; she’d have to remember that for another time. Taking pity on him, she wrapped her hot mouth around him, taking him as deep as she could. A strangled shout was wrenched from his throat. His leg twitched next to her as he struggled not to thrust. Belle moaned softly at the feel of his thick weight on her tongue, rubbing her thighs together to relieve some of the pressure there. She started bobbing her head excruciatingly slowly, enjoying the slick slide of every inch of his shaft between her lips. 

“God… Belle…” Lachlan panted. “You look so fucking perfect with my cock between your lips.”

His words sent a bolt of desire straight to her clit, causing her to groan muffledly around him and start moving faster. She reached a free hand up to play with his balls, her nails scraping - lightly, lightly! - against the smooth, sensitive skin of his sac. He spread his legs wider with a needy moan, and she was happy to oblige - alternating between exciting scrapes and soothing touches of her fingertips.

Too soon, she felt him harden even further in her mouth, and then he was pushing urgently at her shoulders. “Fuck, Belle, I’m close, I’m - I’m there!” Instead of relinquishing her hold, she doubled down, hollowing her cheeks and sucking for all she was worth as he came, snarling and swearing, on her tongue. His leg continued to spasm next to her as she guided him through the aftershocks, slowing until he calmed under. 

She still held his come on her tongue, savoring the earthy flavor of him. Every other time she’d done this, she’d rushed to the nearest sink to spit the bitter - or worse, bleachy - taste from her mouth. But Lachlan’s musky flavor was better than she’d expected, and she swallowed it down without hesitation. 

Before she could give it another thought, Lachlan had his hands on her cheeks, tugging her back up to the head of the bed. She struggled when he lined them up for a kiss - no man ever wanted to kiss her after that! - but he insisted, thrusting his tongue in her mouth. Her own flavor still lingered in his mouth, and god, they tasted even better together. She chased the savor of their mixed pleasure with her own tongue, whimpering desperately into his mouth as he ignited her all over again.

Before she could even think to pull away to give him a chance to recover, his fingers were dipping between her thighs, thrusting into her while his thumb danced over her slick wetness. She rode his hand shamelessly, chasing a second climax with frantic single-mindedness. She felt the flames licking at her lower belly, her cunt fluttering around his questing digits. She was close - so close - 

Lachlan’s free hand came up to pinch roughly at her nipple, pushing her over the edge. She keened into his mouth as pleasure exploded through her veins, stars bursting behind her eyes. When he’d wrung every last bit of ecstasy from her, she collapsed on top of him in a boneless, sweaty heap.

“Fuck,” she panted.

“Maybe later,” he breathed. “Give a man a minute to recover.”

"Just a minute?” she asked innocently.

He reached down and swatted lightly at her backside, eliciting a surprised squeal from her. “Tease,” he muttered to her delighted giggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Unplanned smut. This was supposed to happen in a future chapter, but Belle and Lachlan insisted. It's their fault, and definitely not mine.


	13. This Could Be That Freefall Back To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it! I said I'd get the next chapter out by Halloween, and I did it with an hour to spare. It's a short one, but I got there.

When Lachlan opened his eyes, the setting sun cast lengthening shadows in his bedroom.

“Wha…?” he mumbled, confused. He’d only closed his eyes for a few minutes. Shouldn’t it still be early afternoon?

“Hey,” a soft voice next to him said. He turned his head to the side, focusing bleary eyes on the beautiful brunette in bed with him. She’d dressed herself in a pair of knickers and his T-shirt, and was currently lying on her side with her head propped in one hand and a book in the other.

“Hey. How long was I…?” Before he could finish his sentence, his mouth stretched in a jaw-cracking yawn, his hand coming up at the last minute to cover it. 

“Passed out?” Her crooked smile was gently teasing. “About four hours. You looked like you needed it.”

“I think the past few days finally caught up with me,” he admitted. 

“And I’m sure I had nothing to do with it,” Belle added with a sly wink.

Lachlan’s first instinct was to fire back some sort of dirty comeback to make her laugh - something about how she had a magic mouth, or how she’d sucked the life right out of him. And if this had been any normal weekend, he would have. From the start, one of the things that had drawn him to Belle was the easy way they could tease each other. He loved her laugh, and loved making her laugh. It didn’t hurt that she could give as good as she got.

But after everything that had happened this weekend, it hardly seemed right. What was one supposed to say to the woman who cared for him through his self-inflicted illness? Who listened to his deepest, darkest secrets without judgment or condemnation? Who matched his confession with her own, despite the emotional toll it took on her? Who did everything in her power to help him reclaim the life he’d let fall to the wayside? 

“Thank you” was a good start, but fell flat in the face of the magnitude of all she’d done. “I don’t know where I’d be without you” was closer, but inaccurate; he’d most likely be right here, bottle in hand. For a wild moment, he knew exactly what he wanted to say. He quickly shoved the words aside. It was too soon. There would be time for that later.

He settled for something less impulsive, but no less heartfelt. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that?” he breathed. It would do.

The tender smile she gave him set his heart fluttering in his chest. She shuffled closer to him, her eyes straying to his mouth, making her intent clear. Helpless to resist, he cradled her jaw in his palm, leaning forward to capture her lips with his. Belle responded eagerly, putting her book aside so she could twine one hand in his hair and wrap the other around his waist. His scalp tingled pleasantly under the light scraping of her nails, making his eyes flicker shut.

Their exploration of each other was slow, unhurried, and Lachlan’s heart thrilled at it. Always before, snogging had been a means to an end: a meeting of nerve endings to entice and enflame, always leading up to sex. But the connection he had with Belle went beyond the mere physical. Their shared breaths, mingling moans, the sweet, throbbing ache in his groin - all of that was unimportant in the face of being here, with her, in this moment. Kissing Belle wasn’t a means to an end; it was an end in itself.

Eventually, as if by mutual agreement, their kisses tapered off until they were lightly sipping at each other’s lips. When he finally pulled back, she made a quiet sound of protest. Lachlan pressed his forehead to Belle’s, trying to get his ragged breathing under control. The unfulfilled ache in his cock was dwarfed by the one in his chest, and he bit his tongue to keep himself from saying something absolutely idiotic.

Once their breathing slowed, Belle tucked herself under his chin, burying her face in his throat. She inhaled deeply through her nose, and her contented sigh tickled his collarbone.

“Thank you for listening earlier,” she said quietly. “I’ve never really talked about it before.”

“Mm.” He’d figured as much. The way she’d trembled in his arms as she told her story, it was clear that her past tormented her just as badly as Lachlan’s own affected him. He was starting to see that she was just as fucked up as he was, in her own way. And maybe that made him the last person on earth that she should lean on.

He couldn’t accept that. Belle’s support wasn’t just in the things she did for him. She made him want to be better. She made him  _ stronger _ . Surely he could do the same for her. He just had to figure out  _ how _ .

“Have you considered talking to Lacey about it?” he asked, immediately regretting it when she stiffened.

“There’s no need. She’s made her feelings for me totally clear,” she said, her tone frigid. 

Lachlan paused. Lacey was a very sensitive topic. If he pushed too hard, he’d be playing right into Belle’s insecurities. But both sisters were clearly hurting. More accurately, they were hurting each other. God knew he was the last person on earth who should be giving her advice on sibling relations, but he couldn’t just do nothing.

“I’m not sure she has,” he said carefully. Belle pulled back, a look of betrayal in her eyes. He hastily continued. “Before you say anything, just let me say this one thing. All right? And if you want, I’ll never bring it up again.”

She shifted backwards in bed, putting a foot of space between them, arms wrapped protectively around her middle. “Fine,” she said, eyes wary and guarded.

Shite. Shite, shite, shite. He’d really stepped in it now. He needed to handle this carefully, or he risked losing all of the progress they’d made this weekend.

“Look, I’m not exactly your sister’s biggest fan, either,” he started. “I think the only reason I’m not more pissed off than I am is because I was too busy… well, moping about you and getting pissed at the bar. By the time it occurred to me just how fucked up what she did was, she’d already apologized.”

Belle was quiet. Her brow was still lowered in a frown, but now she appeared to be digesting the info he’d given her, which was something. At least she wasn’t rejecting it outright.

“She apologized?” she asked grudgingly.

“That night you picked us both up from the bar,” he confirmed, cheeks heating in embarrassment as he remembered her patiently dragging his drunk arse home and putting him to bed. Had that really only been a week ago? It felt like half a lifetime. God, he was a fucking idiot. “She… I don’t remember all the details. I’d already had a few by then. But I remember her saying she felt awful. She said she never meant for things to go so far.” He also remembered the look on her face when he’d inadvertently told her that her sister hated her. Lacey hadn’t looked angry, or calculating. She’d looked  _ hurt. _

Belle’s jaw was set in a stubborn line. “Well, good. She should feel awful.” 

“Belle…” He scrubbed tiredly at his face with his palm. “Do you have any idea what I’d give to have just one more hour with Jed? Just one fucking hour of busting each other’s balls, bickering over whether Roth or Hagar was the better frontman for Van Halen, or which New Order album was the best. Even just an hour of Jed giving me that disappointed look he always had when I got high again. I’d  _ kill _ for that.” He bared his teeth, grimacing against the ever-present pang in his chest when he thought of Jed. “Look. I can’t pretend I understand your relationship with Lacey. And I sure as hell don’t have the right to try and call the shots there. But I think if something were to happen to her tomorrow, and you never got the chance to hash things out, you’d regret it.” The stubborn lines of her face softened in uncertainty. Hoping he wasn’t pressing his luck, he persisted. “Just talk to her. See what happens.”

“I don’t remember the last time we talked without someone screaming or storming out,” she admitted. “I’m not sure we know how to, anymore.”

“I’m not saying you have to do it right this minute. Or at all, if you don’t want,” he amended, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “Just… think about it, eh?”

She smiled weakly, but her heart clearly wasn’t in it. “I guess I can do that.”

******

Belle glanced tiredly up at the stove clock from where she knelt on the floor, scrubbing years of accumulated grime from inside the oven. Was it really after two AM already? What she’d thought was about a half hour of scrubbing must have been closer to three.

Lachlan’s words had weighed heavily on her mind; every time she’d tried to fall asleep, her worries kept her from nodding off. He was right, of course. As much as she resented Lacey, she’d be devastated if something happened to her. That was, after all, why she did so much to keep Lacey close, even when it seemed thankless. Still. The idea of reaching out to her sister and clearing the air about their mum’s death was  _ terrifying. _ It was one thing to know that her sister blamed her for what happened. Lacey’s actions proved that she obviously did. But Belle knew that actually hearing the words would destroy her.

That conversation could be avoided for the rest of their lives, as far as Belle was concerned. Still, she hadn’t heard from Lacey over a day, and the constant niggling worry that she was dead in a ditch somewhere just wouldn’t leave her head. And so, once Lachlan had fallen asleep, Belle fired off a quick text checking in on Lacey:  _ I haven’t heard from you. Please let me know if you’re okay. _

The response she received was exactly what she expected:  _ Are you seriously checking up on me? Stop playing Mum for two fucking seconds and leave me alone!  _ Expected or not, it still stung. Most days, it felt like she couldn’t win for losing with Lacey. And so, unable to settle her racing thoughts, she’d crept out of bed in search of something to clean.

Thankfully, Lachlan seemed to be sleeping through the night. It seemed that after being put through the physical and emotional wringer for a few days, his body was finally demanding the sleep it needed. Good thing - if Belle’s research was accurate, he could expect a lot of restless nights over the next few weeks. They may have gotten through the most deadly stage of alcohol withdrawal, but between the cravings, the insomnia, the tremors and the headaches, he was going to be sorely tempted to cave in and have a drink. 

Belle felt a pang of guilt. She really shouldn’t have thrown herself at him the way she did. Confiding in him had left her feeling raw, vulnerable, and off-balance. His quiet reassurances, though untrue, had touched her, and she was still awestruck by his determination to sober up and turn his life around. When he cited her as one of his inspirations to do so, she couldn’t help herself.

She had to do better, she reflected as she scrubbed vigorously at a stubborn burnt-on spot in the oven. Pulling himself up from rock bottom in the face of grief both old and new, decades-old guilt, and addiction took extraordinary strength on his part. If she wanted to support him in his sobriety, she could give no less. She needed to stand on her own two feet so he could lean on her. She wouldn’t let him fall.

But that was a problem, wasn’t it? She couldn’t be with him all the time. Tomorrow was Monday. She’d managed to get the day off at the library, and Lachlan had called his work to let them know he wouldn’t be in. But after today, she couldn’t take another day off from the diner. As expected, she’d gotten a nasty text from her manager for using a sick day. If she dared to use another, she could expect her hours to be cut for the next month.

She chewed her lip worriedly. God, she didn’t want to go home. Despite everything, this weekend was the closest thing she’d had to a vacation in as long as she could remember. She desperately wanted to stay here, where everything was simple. If this weekend could just last forever, she could pretend that everything outside of this flat didn’t exist.

“Belle?” 

Looking up from her work, she saw Lachlan standing in the kitchen doorway. She fought the urge to nibble on her lower lip. Dressed only in his boxers, hair mussed from sleep, with the beginnings of stubble on his cheeks, he looked good enough to eat. All of that lovely, tanned skin simply begged for attention from her lips and tongue. 

He also looked exhausted, rubbing tiredly at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. She willed her libido to calm down.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

He shook his head, eyes squinting in the kitchen’s light. “No. Just… nightmares,” he admitted, his voice slurred slightly from sleep. “What are you doing out of bed, love?”

A delighted shiver ran through her at being so addressed. Still, it didn’t necessarily mean anything. He’d called her that once before, long before they’d started dating. More than that, she felt a pang of guilt. If she hadn’t been so wrapped up in her own worries, she would’ve been with Lachlan when he woke up. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I couldn’t sleep. Figured I might as well do something productive.”

“Well, stop,” he grumbled. Stepping further into the room, he took her gloved hands in his and pulled up. Unresisting, she rose to her feet. “You don’t have to come back to bed if you don’t want. Read a book. Put on a movie. Play some music. Pace the flat like a madwoman if you need to. Whatever it is, I’ll sleep through it. But I’m begging you, for fuck’s sake,  _ please stop cleaning. _ ” He tugged the rubber gloves off of her hands, tossing them into the sink with a wet  _ plop. _

Belle frowned, confused. “Does it really bother you that much?”

“Yes, it fucking bothers me!” He paused, the crooked line of his teeth bared in a grimace, and scrubbed at his face with his palm. “Look… it’s two-thirty in the bloody morning. I’m knackered, my head’s pounding, and I’m in a strop. So if you really want to get into this now, I’m probably going to be…” He trailed off.

“A bit caustic?” Belle supplied.

He snorted. “I was going to say ‘a complete arsehole,’ but sure. Caustic. That sounds better.” He raked his fingers through his hair. 

Belle considered her options. The choice was a surprisingly easy one; if her cleaning really upset Lachlan that much, then she’d stop. She’d just have to figure out some other way to prove her worth to him. And hopefully, some other way to keep him.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “You win. No more cleaning.”

Lachlan released a breath she hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you.” She couldn’t imagine what he could possibly be grateful for. “Are you coming to bed, or…?”

Another easy decision. Her thoughts were still jittery and unsettled, and sleep likely wouldn’t come soon. But if cleaning was off the table, and her options were to sit alone on that godawful couch or lie in bed with Lachlan, there was no contest.

She gestured for him to precede her. “Lead the way.”

******

_ How the hell did I ever get lucky enough to get someone like her in my bed? In my life? _

Waking up next to Belle was everything he’d hoped it would be. He’d never realized just how empty his bed was without her in it: her warmth, her scent, the soft snores that broke the silence of the early morning. Lachlan couldn’t take his eyes off of her prone form while she slept. Her face was slack and relaxed in repose, her hair frizzing loose from the braid she’d tied her hair in last night. Her constant, anxious chewing left her lower lip chapped, and underneath her eyes were stained a bluish purple from lack of sleep, but she was loveliness personified all the same. Even though she was drooling lightly on his pillow, he noted with amusement.

He’d woken up from a nightmare last night - thankfully not one about the night of Jed’s death - to find Belle gone. Still coming down from the anxiety of a dream in which his parents had blamed him for the death of their elder son, he’d momentarily panicked, thinking he’d driven Belle away with all his talk about reconciling with Lacey. But then he’d heard the increasingly familiar, rhythmic rasp of scrubbing, and knew exactly what she was doing. 

Getting her to come back to bed was surprisingly easy; she’d thankfully agreed to stop what she was doing without asking him why it pissed him off so much. Maybe there was a diplomatic way to say “I think your parents were a pair of arseholes who took advantage of you your whole life,” but if there was, he sure as fuck wasn’t going to find it at two in the morning with pain throbbing behind his eyes. And diplomatic or not, he was fairly certain she’d take criticism of her parents personally. She seemed dead set on blaming herself for circumstances that they’d put themselves in.

Belle shifted onto her side, murmuring something unintelligible in her sleep. Her movement tugged the neckline of her tank top precariously low, causing one small breast to slowly slip from its confines. Her rosy nipple was soft and relaxed, and there was something so intimate about that. Until now, he’d only seen her breasts when she was in the throes of arousal, her nipples hardened to pebbled peaks begging for his touch. To see her in this open, vulnerable state awakened something in him - some instinct that wanted to protect her and keep her safe. He wanted her to feel she could be vulnerable with him any time - asleep or awake - without any fear. He needed her to rely on him in the same way he’d come to rely on her.

And until this point, he’d done a crap job of showing that she could. It was time to step up and start being the man that Belle deserved. He still wasn’t exactly sure what that entailed, but maybe if he started small, he’d figure it out along the way. And what better way to start than by cooking breakfast? Belle had cooked every last meal they’d had all weekend - excluding his sole contribution of calling out for pizza - so the least he could do was return the favor. There was bacon, eggs and jam in the fridge, and a loaf of bread on the counter. He might be pure shite in the kitchen, but even he could manage scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.

With an affectionate half-grin, he ran one thumb gently over the softness of her nipple, marveling in just how satiny smooth it was. A gentle tweak at the neckline of her tank top covered her breast, and a tug at her blanket covered her up to her shoulders. He crept out of the bedroom as silently as he could, not bothering to get dressed so as not to wake her. After the weekend she’d had, the least she deserved was to be surprised with breakfast in bed.

What a pair they made, he reflected as he carefully laid bacon in one of the two skillets on the stovetop before cracking eggs haphazardly in a bowl. The woman who was forced to grow up early, and the man who ran from anything remotely resembling responsibility. It should be a recipe for disaster.  _ Which could also describe my pathetic attempt at cooking, _ he thought as he desperately tried to pull shards of egg shell from the bowl. The damn things kept slipping away from his fingers in the mess of yolks and whites. By the time the bowl was hopefully shell-free, the bacon needed to be flipped. He did so, frowning ruefully at the slightly blackened strips. They should still be edible, but he definitely wasn’t winning any awards for this meal.

Once the eggs were in the pan and the bread was in the toaster, he was left with little to do but stir and wait. In the quiet, he found himself wondering just what had gotten into him. He wasn’t always the selfish prick he’d been in his final days in California. He liked to think he’d been a not-completely-shite son before he’d fucked off to Manchester at fourteen, a decent husband before Jed died, and maybe even an okay friend before the deportation proceedings began. But the urge to do better, to be there for Belle not out of obligation, but because her happiness was his happiness? That was new. He couldn’t put his finger on what was different about Belle. He’d been with beautiful women before. He’d been with intelligent women, kind women, women with quiet inner strength that let them roll with the punches life laid on them. Hell, he’d married a woman who was all of those things, and hadn’t been half so willing to change for her. He tried picturing himself acting this way for Catherine, or maybe even Beau, but his imagination failed. So what was different about Belle? 

Maybe… maybe it was nothing. Not that Belle wasn’t an incredible woman - she was. But maybe the thing that was different this time… was him. It was something to think about.

But not, apparently, right now. The bacon popped angrily in the skillet, splashing his bare chest with hot grease. “Ah! Fuck!” he yelped, scrambling to grab a plate. He hastily transferred the bacon to the dish, muttering and cursing as the burning oil spattered his vulnerable skin.

“Fucking  _ eejit _ , cooking sodding bacon without grabbing a fucking shirt. Pure fucking bampot who cannae even - ow. Ow!” The last slice of bacon fell from his fork back into the grease, which hissed and spat angrily all over him. By the time he finally got the bacon plated and the skillet off the burner, the eggs were done. Almost overdone, actually. They’d be dry, but hopefully not rubbery. He couldn’t help comparing this sad meal to the variety of finger foods Belle had made on their second date. She’d somehow managed to make a veritable smorgasbord for him, and he could barely manage a simple, edible breakfast. “How the fuck does she do it?” he demanded of no one.

“How the fuck does she do what?”

Lachlan nearly jumped out of his skin. Whirling around, he saw Belle leaning against the kitchen door, rubbing her eyes with a warm smile that made his heart trip in his chest. “How the fuck do you cook so many things at once?” he demanded. “I can’t even handle breakfast!”

“You… you cooked me breakfast?” Her brow lowered, her gaze darting around the kitchen like she’d never seen someone cook before.

“It was supposed to be breakfast in bed, but…” He shrugged helplessly, and gestured toward the table. “Sit down. It’s almost done.” The toast popped up in the toaster just then, perfectly timed. At least one thing was. He plated up the best portion of eggs, the least burnt pieces of bacon, and two slices of toast. Depositing the plate in front of her, he quickly fetched her utensils and the jar of jam. “It’s not much,” he apologized. “I don’t cook often.” 

He turned quickly away from her, not wanting to see the disappointed look in her eyes. Making his own plate provided the distraction he needed. Belle made a small sound in her throat - quiet enough that he couldn’t tell if it signified disappointment, disgust, or some other emotion. God, what had he been thinking, making breakfast? He was a shite cook. He could’ve picked anything else and it would have been less of a disaster.

Settling in the seat next to her, he kept his eyes on his food. Burnt bacon and overcooked eggs wouldn’t kill his appetite the way Belle’s disappointment would. He took a bite of bacon, wincing at the loud crunch. A small sniffle got his attention. He swallowed, looking up at Belle’s face. Her head was bowed, her shoulders shaking. Surely he hadn’t done so poorly that she was laughing at him. Had he? A clear droplet fell from her face onto her plate, and his heart sank.

Belle wasn’t laughing. She was  _ crying. _

“Oh, Belle.” God, he was making a mess of this. Nothing was more basic than scrambled eggs and bacon, and he couldn’t even get that simple meal right. “Belle, I’m sorry. We can have something else. Let me just…” He grabbed her plate, intent on chucking the contents in the bin.

Before he could lift it more than a few centimeters, her hands shot out, slamming it back down on the table. And without further ado, he had a lapful of Belle, the petite librarian straddling him and sobbing quietly into his shoulder. The rickety wooden chair creaked ominously under their combined weight. He ignored it; Belle was the more pressing concern.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was making a  _ mess _ of this. He’d never seen Belle really cry before. Not when she’d found out he slept with Lacey. Not even when she’d told him about her parents. He must have cocked things up  _ badly _ if she was this upset.

Helplessly, he comforted her as best as he could: holding her securely on his lap with one hand while the other ran slowly up and down her spine, murmuring whatever comforting nonsense popped into his head. Mostly he just alternated between “it’s alright,” and “I’m sorry.” His clumsy attempts to console her were ineffective; her hot tears dripped from his shoulder and down his chest.

Eventually her sobs tapered off. Suddenly, her fingers were threading through his hair and her mouth was on his. Her kiss was long, slow, and sweet, and tasted of the salty tang of her tears. Confused, he let her pull gently at his lips, his hand continuing to caress up and down the notches of her spine.

When she finally pulled away, both of their faces were wet with her tears. “Oh god, you must think I’ve completely lost my mind, crying over breakfast,” she said with a weak, watery giggle.

Well, at this point, one of them was going barmy. He just wasn’t sure whether it was her or him. “So… you’re not upset with me?” he hazarded.

“Upset with you? Oh, Lachlan…” A few more tears escaped her eyes. He reached up to wipe them away, and was rewarded with her sweet smile. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m not upset. Just a little overwhelmed, is all.”

“Overwhelmed?” 

“Yeah. I just…” She paused to sniffle. “God, why can’t I stop  _ crying! _ I can’t…” She swallowed hard and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Nobody’s cooked a meal for me since my mum died. It was always my job to take care of everyone. I think everything would’ve fallen apart if I didn’t. So when I saw you cooking, and you said you wanted to make me breakfast in bed, it just… I felt so…” Her voice thickened, her eyes welling up with tears.

He breathed a sigh of relief. So he hadn’t completely fucked things up, after all. With a gentle nudge, he encouraged her back to her own chair. “Well, don’t expect a gourmet meal,” he warned. “I’ve told you I’m a shite cook, and breakfast is no exception to that rule. I doubt burnt bacon and dry eggs will live up to eighteen years of expectations.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely.” 

They both tucked into their plates, Belle with far more gusto than it deserved. With every bite she had a shy smile for him, making his chest swell with ridiculous pride. If this was how she reacted to a poorly prepared, amateurish meal, he’d have to learn how to cook properly for her.

Once they both emptied their plates, Belle leaned back in her seat, eyeing the dirty dishes. She glanced guiltily at him, but stayed seated.

Lachlan sighed. If she could pretend to enjoy his cooking, he could meet her halfway in this. “Would it make you feel better to do the dishes?” he asked. She nodded. “Fine, but I’m drying them.”

Dishes didn’t take long at all when they worked together, and soon the kitchen was put back to rights. “So if you don’t want me cleaning, what should we get up to today?” she asked.

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted nothing more than to strip those pajamas off of her, lick every inch of her he could reach, and then bury himself in her so deeply he could no longer tell where he ended and she began. 

But a thought had been plaguing him ever since he’d been woken by nightmares in the wee hours of the morning. There was something he needed to do. Something he’d been putting off for far too long. The idea still filled him with dread, but it felt like something he could handle, now. Not like when he’d first returned to the UK.

“I think... I need to visit my family.”

******

Belle kept a close watch on Lachlan from the corner of her eye as they wended their way across the cemetery toward his parents’ graves. The overcast sky and light pattering of rain seemed to fit his subdued demeanor, and they huddled close together under their shared umbrella to escape the worse of the chilly damp. Lachlan had put on his nicest jeans, a white button-down, and a worn, gray blazer for the occasion. As for herself, Belle dressed in a bright, floral print frock. When Fiona had passed away, she’d made it clear that she wanted no sombre colors at her funeral. A funeral, she said, should be a celebration of life, not just an observance of death. Belle took that to heart, and always wore her liveliest clothes when visiting her friend.

As they got closer to his parents’ burial site, Lachlan’s steps began to falter. His lips were pressed in a thin, pinched line, and his eyes darted left and right, as though looking for an escape route. His left hand was fumbling with the wide links of the silver bracelet on his wrist. Reaching out, Belle took Lachlan’s hand in her own, squeezing his fingers reassuringly. His fraught brown eyes met hers.

“Hey. You can do this,” she said. “If you’re not ready, that’s fine. We’ll go home, relax, cuddle, maybe fool around a little.” Her encouraging smile provoked a matching glimmer from him. “You’re already doing a lot this weekend, so there’s no shame in putting this off a little longer. But Lachlan, I think you’re stronger than you realize. If you want, I’ll be here the whole time.”

He was quiet for a long moment. His gaze darted back and forth between her and the grave site. Finally, he said, “No. I think this is something I need to do on my own.”

“Okay.” Giving his fingers a final squeeze, she stepped away and turned her back to give him some privacy. This was going to be an intensely personal moment, and it wasn’t her place to eavesdrop.

Knowing what she now did about his family history, she understood why he’d stayed away for so long. Running from his problems might not have been the brave thing to do, but if she was honest with herself, she could admit that she would’ve likely done the same right after her mother’s death, had it been an option. Running from the guilt of her actions would have been taking the easy way out, yes. But hadn’t she done that anyway, when she’d come to Scotland after college? And like him, she’d come to regret leaving.

Her heart ached for the family that had been torn apart by one tragic mistake. She’d never met Malcolm or Jed; both had died before she picked up her life and moved here for a fresh start. But she’d seen how adrift Fiona had been in her grief for her husband and sons. She saw echoes of that same lost quality in Lachlan now, as he struggled to come to terms with the mistakes he’d made. He had no family left to lean on, and he blamed himself for all of it.

Except that wasn’t accurate. He had a daughter across the pond. Arianwen. A daughter he’d been estranged from until recently, and was now separated from due to his deportation. He had regrets there, as well, but he was working through them. She didn’t know much of the story there, but she’d seen the pride and love in his eyes when he showed her pictures of Arianwen. It was clear that he cared deeply for her, despite how little time they’d had to reconnect.

The envy that burned in Belle’s gut shamed her. Not that she begrudged Lachlan his relationship with his child; never that. But Belle had never been able to get through to her own father the way Arianwen eventually had with Lachlan. It had taken years of begging, crying, scolding, and threatening her dad to stop drinking before Belle had finally given up. All those years, some childish part of her had wanted to be the hero who swooped in and saved her father from his alcoholism and grief. She hadn’t realized until she saw him in that hospital bed, dying of liver failure without any remorse or regret, that there was nobody left to save; Moe French had died with his wife Collette in that car accident. He’d just spent the next thirteen years encouraging his body to follow his spirit’s lead.

And Belle was the one who did that to them. She had no right to be jealous of a girl just because she was able to inspire Lachlan in a way that Belle couldn’t do for her own father.

And in any case, this wasn’t about her. This was about Lachlan, and helping him to piece his life back together. There was a spark in him that she’d seen from the day they’d met - a spark that her father never had - which was currently driving him to break free of his addiction and do right by the little family he had left. Maybe the spark had been there all along. Maybe Arianwen had ignited it. In the end, it didn’t matter; what mattered was that it was there, ready to be fanned into a flame. All he needed was patience and care.

Footsteps approached from behind. Belle turned, holding the umbrella out so Lachlan could duck underneath. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her close while he buried his face in her hair. Belle used her free hand to stroke the back of his head, damp strands of his hair clinging to her palm. He inhaled deeply, shakily, and pulled back. She gazed searchingly into his eyes. They were red-rimmed, lined with exhaustion, but dry. 

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“Not bad, as far as one-sided conversations go,” he sighed. “I apologized. For a lot of things. They didn’t have much to say.” 

She didn’t know what to say. Maybe the right words didn’t exist. If they did, she’d never learned them. “Did it help?”

“I…” One hand left her waist to run through his hair. “I don’t know. I’ve never been a religious man. I don’t... Maybe they’re up there, somewhere, watching. Or maybe they’re just gone.” He paused. “But it felt good to talk to them, whether they were there or not.”

“I’m glad.” Her gaze strayed over his shoulder, to another grave a few dozen meters away. She’d accompanied Fiona to this marker a few times when the older woman was still alive. She still visited it whenever she came to see Fiona, if only to keep the area neat and well maintained. “Do you want to see…?” She allowed her voice to trail off.

Lachlan shrank in on himself - head lowered, shoulders hunching, face tightened in a pained rictus. “I can’t,” he hissed. “Not yet.”

Belle nodded. He’d come leaps and bounds in only a matter of days. She couldn’t expect him to get over years of pain and guilt overnight. If he pushed himself too far, he might drive himself back to drink. Better that he knew his limits.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm debating whether I want to explore Lachlan and Belle's kinkier side. I've got a couple of ideas that just won't leave my head. But I wasn't really planning on exploring kink in my original idea for this story. I'm still weighing the pros and cons of moving forward with it. If I DO decide to do so, I'll probably do it in side story form; that way those who want to, can read it, but those who don't can skip.


	14. Searching Out, Reaching In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I got straight-up SHAMELESS with the OUaT character cameos/references this chapter.

Belle wiped off the diner’s laminate countertop with a dreamy look on her face. As usual, Tuesday mornings at the diner were slow - a fact for which she was currently grateful. How could she focus on taking orders when her mind kept drifting back to the weekend?

She was absolutely smitten, and she knew it. When she’d initially asked Lachlan out for coffee, she’d been planning to take things slowly. She’d never been one to fall heedlessly in love; she preferred to slowly rappel her way down, always pausing to make sure her rope held, wary of the dangers below. Despite her best intentions, with Lachlan she’d sprinted for the cliff edge and dove in head first. For better or worse she was in free fall. She simply had to hope he’d be there to catch her.

She desperately didn’t want to return to the drudgery of her everyday life. Working a second job so she could support a sister who hated her… She’d never given much thought to how unhappy her life made her. Not until Lachlan showed how much he appreciated her. Not what she did for him. Just… her. Somehow, inexplicably, he seemed to think she was enough.

Leaving his apartment this morning has been bittersweet. The idea of going back to her life, to her second job and to Lacey and to her responsibilities, made her die a little inside. But it was hard to think about that when he’d stopped her as she tried to leave for one last, lingering embrace.

_ “Stop kissing me,” he mumbled as his lips pulled at hers, “or we’ll both be late for work.” _

_ “You have to… mm. You have to let me go first,” she retorted, winding her fingers through the hair at his nape to tug him closer. _

_ He groaned into her as her nails scratched at the back of his head in that way she knew he liked. Finally pulling back, he growled, “Keep that up and I’ll tie you down to the bed and never let you leave.” _

_ Cheeks heating at the thought, she reluctantly relinquished her hold on him. “Promises, promises,” she quipped. She gave him one last peck on the lips before she stepped back and picked up her suitcase. Turning on her heel with a sly look at him over her shoulder, she stepped into the hallway with a teasing sway of her hips. The swat on her backside came with no warning, sending a frisson of excitement through her.  _

“Hello? Earth to Belle!”

Belle started out of her thoughts. “Hm? What?” Turning, she saw that her coworker Rosie was looking at her askance, an amused grin on her ruby painted lips. 

“You look like you’re two seconds away from melting into a puddle of goo on the floor, and I’m not going to be the one to mop it up.” Plopping into a stool on the other side of the counter, Rosie leaned her elbows on the counter. “So who is it? The guy you’ve been all mopey and tight-lipped about, or someone new?”

Belle rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind it. After how moody she’d been lately, she probably owed Rosey some gossip. She glanced quickly around the diner. There wasn’t a customer in sight, and all of their prep work was done. More importantly, their manager, Donna, was tucked away in the back room. 

“The same guy,” Belle confessed in a quiet voice. “Things were sort of dodgy for a bit, but we worked things out.”

“I’ll say, if that dopey smile on your face is any indication.” Rosie tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “So what’s he like? And why don’t you talk about him more?”

Belle shrugged uncertainly. “I guess I just don’t want to jinx it, is all. It’s all so new. I feel like if I make one wrong move, everything’s just going to go up in smoke.”

She gave a low whistle. “You’re really into this guy, huh?”

Belle lowered her head to the counter, letting it hit the laminate with a  _ thump. _ “God, Rosie, I’m  _ really _ into him,” she moaned. “He’s--”

“Ooh, don’t tell me! Let me guess.” Rosie tapped her lower lip with a pen. “Let’s see… he’s a poet,” she decided. “He wears poofy shirts and tight leather trousers, and spends his days wandering the moors composing sonnets rhapsodizing about your beauty. He lives in a seaside shack. His lifetime goal is to read every last book in the Mitchell Library. How’d I do?”

Belle paused. She hadn’t really thought about it, but Lachlan was different from every other man she’d dated in that regard. She’d always gravitated toward enthusiastic readers and writers. Always. After all, without that common interest, what was the point in dating?

But if her dating history was any indication, that common ground wasn’t enough. Sure, her previous boyfriends liked to talk about books. To deride her taste as worthless escapism, or demand her time to revise his writing, among other things. None of them cared about her opinion. And none of them chose her over Lacey.

Sure, Lachlan didn’t read much, and she didn’t listen to music. But she adored lying with him and listening to the songs that moved him. Even better was hearing what he had to say about those songs: random trivia, favorite passages, memories he associated with a song. She only hoped he got a fraction of the same enjoyment from listening to her read her favorite stories.

What she and Lachlan lacked in common hobbies, she liked to think they made up for in true connection. He  _ listened  _ to her. He cared what she had to say, even when she was talking about something that probably didn’t interest him. That meant so much more to her than a mere mutual hobby.

“Wrong on all counts,” Belle giggled. “He’s a musician - a guitarist. He wears jeans, and lives in a flat nearby. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t do anything more interesting with his free time than watching movies and visiting me at the library.” Her head tilted as she considered something her friend said. “You might be onto something with the leather trousers, though. If he doesn’t own a pair, that’s a crime against humanity. I doubt I can get him into a poet shirt, though.”

Rosie sighed. “Well, never say never. Anyway, when do I get to meet this guy? You should both come out for drinks sometime!”

“Yeah, maybe.” Rosie had been inviting Belle to go out drinking since Belle started working at the diner four years ago. Belle begged off each time, citing work as an excuse. It was easier than justifying her aversion to alcohol by explaining her family history. 

“Ugh, that’s a ‘no,’ isn’t it?” she asked rhetorically. “Well, that’s fine. Still, things must be really heating up between you two, huh? I never thought I’d see the day you’d actually start taking Sundays off.”

Belle’s eyes rolled. “I told Donna an emergency came up. It was just a one-time thing.”

“Not according to the schedule. You’re off Sundays for the rest of the month.”

“What?!” That couldn’t be possible. She couldn’t be pulled off Sundays. They were the only days where she made enough to justify keeping this job. Without Sundays, she couldn’t afford to keep Lacey safe off the streets. She  _ needed _ Sundays! “I - I need to talk to Donna. Can you hold things down for a bit?”

Rosie glanced around the deserted diner. “Oh no, however will I serve all these customers by myself?” she asked with a grin. “Go on. I’ve got this.”

“Thanks.” Belle hurried through the swinging double doors into the kitchen. Normally, the air would be hot and sultry, filled with the smells of sizzling meats, roasting vegetables, and frying chips. But lately business had been slow, and the cooks had little to do. The kitchen was silent but for the quiet muttering of the head cook - a hulking man in his middle years who simply went by Silver. “All right, Silver?” she asked.

“Aye, bloody perfect,” he muttered, wiping his clean hands unnecessarily on his apron. “Nothing beats dragging my arse outta bed for work for no fucking reason. You going to see Donna?” She nodded. “Tell ‘er we’d get a helluva lot more customers if she’d let me actually fucking cook, yeah? If people wanted to eat microwaved crap, they’d stay home.”

It was an old argument. The diner’s proprietress, Nana, had hired Donna a year and a half ago so she could retire. Within days of assuming the position as manager, Donna had instituted cost-saving measures: changing the menu, reducing staffing, and the like. The use of pre-packaged food had been a bone of contention between the cook and the manager ever since.

Belle gave him an acknowledging wave. They both knew Donna wouldn’t listen to Belle any more than she’d listen to the kitchen staff. Even if she did, Belle was rubbish at awkward confrontations. She needed to focus on the task at hand. Approaching the closed door that led to the manager’s office, she gave a cautious rap.

“Come in.” Belle opened the door cautiously, poking her head inside. Donna was in her usual spot: at her desk, frowning over spreadsheets and budget documents. She swept a hand through her blonde fringe, pushing it impatiently from her face. After a few moments of typing, she looked up. “Hey, Belle. Everything okay? Need anything? Is the diner busy?” Before Belle could even get a word in, Donna was halfway out of her seat, ready to put on an apron and help out.

“No - no,” she replied, holding her hands up reassuringly. “I just wanted to talk to you about the schedule.”

“Ah.” Sinking back down into the leather swivel chair, Donna steepled her fingers together. “I gave Sundays to Ashleigh. Sunday is our busiest day of the week. I can’t give those hours to someone unreliable.”

Belle’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Unreliable? Donna, that’s the first day off I’ve taken in over two years!”

“It’s not just that,” she replied, leaning back in her seat. “Your availability leaves a lot to be desired. Only Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays? No early mornings? I need staff who can cover a shift if someone gets sick. Quite frankly, if you weren’t one of the hardest working wait staff here, I would have let you go months ago.”

“I have another job! I have a sister to look after!”

“And I have a business to run.” Donna sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, Belle, it’s nothing personal. Really. We all have families. But I can’t give you the best hours if you won’t make this diner a priority.”

Belle knew Donna was being unreasonable. She  _ knew _ it. No reasonable boss would expect an employee to prioritize a part-time position over their full-time career. But she couldn’t help the guilty panic that rose in her chest. Maybe she should open up her availability a bit and agree to work early mornings. She’d done that back in college, after all. Classes in the early morning, working in the afternoon, homework in the evenings, taking care of Dad and Lacey late at night. Get three or four hours of sleep, and start over. It hadn’t been easy, but once she’d established a routine she could grin and bear it.

But she hadn’t been so tired back then. There was only so much time in the day, and she had to pick and choose what was most important. She couldn’t give up the library. She wouldn’t give up Lachlan. And Lacey was her responsibility. The diner  _ had _ to be last on her list. 

But Sundays at the diner allowed her to afford groceries for two, cover the occasional bar tab, and put a little bit of money in her meager rainy day fund. Without those tips… well, she would simply have to make it work. 

“I understand,” she said. “I’d better get back to the front. Rosie might need a hand.” Doubtful, given how poorly the diner had been doing.

Donna waved her off, and Belle made her way back to the dining area. As she’d predicted, not a single customer had come in. Rosey was occupying herself with a thorough examination of her fingernails. 

“How’d it go?” she asked. 

Glancing quickly toward the back to make sure Donna wasn’t coming, Belle quietly summed things up. 

“Ugh. I swear, hiring Donna was the worst thing Nana ever did,” Rosey muttered. “She’s a good worker, but pure crap as a manager.”

“Did you ever talk to Nana about giving you the position?” Belle asked. “You took all those business courses…”

Rosey waved a hand dismissively. “Nah. She still just sees me as the rebellious idiot teenager I used to be. And honestly? Whenever I’m around her, that’s how I  _ act _ . It’s like, I try to show her I’ve changed, but she’ll go and say something about the stupid things I used to do. And instead of being an adult and proving her wrong, this petty part of me goes, ‘right, well, if you’re going to think that about me, then fuck it. That’s who I’ll be.’” She picked thoughtfully at one long, manicured fingernail. “Sometimes I think we need to just... I don’t know, get away from each other. At least we wouldn’t have to be at each other’s throats all the time.”

Belle hummed thoughtfully. She couldn’t imagine a relationship like that. Unlike Rosey, the closest thing she’d ever had to a rebellious phase was skipping a day of work to go on a date, and that had ended in disaster. And her parents had been absent for so long - physically and emotionally - that having one of them around to be overbearing sounded like a luxury to her. She felt like a shark listening to a bear complain that its knee hurt. She understood what Rosie was getting at, but she just didn’t  _ get it. _

“Well, anyway.” Rosie’s ruby-red lips spread in a wolfish smile. “At least there’s one good thing about you having Sundays off. Now you and your boyfriend can come out for drinks on Saturday night.”

“Y-yeah,” Belle said weakly. There went her weekly excuse to avoid the noisy pubs Rosie favored. Oh well. She had four days to come up with a good excuse to beg off.

There was no way she was bringing Lachlan anywhere that would tempt him to drink.

******

_ I need a drink. I need a drink. I need a drink so fucking bad. _

His first day back at work had been absolutely fucking miserable. His head throbbed. His hands shook. Every little sound had him nearly jumping out of his skin. And he was pretty sure he’d managed to alienate half his coworkers with his waspish snapping at every little offense. None of this was anything new, or any worse than it had been all weekend. But combined with the physicality of his job, he was nearing the end of his rope.

His coworker, Tom, had noticed, and generously offered a sip from his flask more than once. It took every bit of restraint he had to say no, and now he was running on fumes. After he’d gotten home and showered off the dust and sweat of the day, he choked down some dinner in spite of his nausea. Since then, he’d flipped through all the pictures of Arianwen on his phone - twice - and fired off a quick email to her to check in and see how she was doing.

He couldn’t stay here another minute. It wasn’t a problem with the flat itself - not anymore. As much as he hated how Belle had insisted on working herself to the bone this weekend, he had to admit that she’d worked some sort of magic on the place. She’d left her mark here and dispelled whatever it was that made him feel so claustrophobic and panicky.

No, the problem now was that the flat was empty. Nobody was here to keep track of him and make sure he stayed sober. Having Belle with him hadn’t made it  _ easy _ to avoid drink, but she’d made it easier. It was impossible for him to take a drink without her finding out. With her gone, it was like there was an insidious little voice in his head, urging him toward failure.

_ The pub is just down the street, _ it said.  _ What’s the harm in having one little drink? You could be back here in under an hour, and Belle would never have to know. Arianwen would never find out, either. Just one glass of whisky. Just grab your coat, leave the building, and turn left. You’ll be there in no time. _

It would be so easy. Not just easy - it would be a relief. A drink would make everything better. No more pain. No more fighting off cravings. Nobody had to know.

Before he could pursue that line of thought any further, he snagged his denim jacket off the coat rack, grabbed his keys, and hurried out the door. Once he reached the stairwell he took the steps two at a time until he reached the bottom floor. He left the building… and turned right.

He had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he couldn’t stay in his apartment without wanting to go to the pub. The library was past the pub, and he didn’t trust himself to pass it without taking a detour and a drink… or five.

The day was drizzling and overcast, like most days in Scotland. He turned his collar up against the cold and damp, ignoring the other pedestrians on the sidewalk. His eyes darted back and forth on both sides of the street, looking for somewhere he could go to keep busy. A bookstore. A diner. A dentist’s office. A liquor store… He picked up his pace until that business was far behind him. Finally, his gaze settled on a grassy area with trees, gardens, and a small pond. The sight tickled his memory. Had he been here before?

Yes, he realized. It was the park where he and Belle had gone on their first date. Where they’d had their first kiss. Hands jammed deep in his jacket pockets, right hand fiddling with his keys, he aimlessly wandered the cobbled path, eyes scanning the flower beds without taking in anything in particular. All around him, leaves rustled in the slight breeze. He could faintly hear quiet quacking from the nearby pond where an older woman was feeding the ducks. 

This place was… nice. Peaceful. The scent of various flowers he couldn’t hope to identify was soothing. Somehow, this place felt separate from the rest of the city. Secluded, without being cut off entirely. There was something calming about that. It didn’t magically make his cravings go away - he suspected nothing would except time - but he found that it grounded him somewhat.

He settled onto a nearby bench, hunching over so he could rest his elbows on his knees. There weren’t too many people in the park. There was the old woman feeding ducks. A few school kids played nearby, jumping in puddles while their parents stood by under their umbrellas. A red-haired man in a brown suit was walking his Dalmatian on the path just in front of Lachlan’s bench. He offered Lachlan a friendly smile and wave, which Lachlan returned without thinking. 

His eyes followed the man as he wended his way along the stone path. Even long after the man rounded a corner and left his line of sight, Lachlan kept staring. The park ended abruptly not too far from where he sat. Across the street was a small community center. It was a squat, ugly brick building, only a single storey high, with a small car park off to the side. Near the front entrance was one of those signs with the replaceable letters. If he squinted, he could just make out what it said.

ALCOHOL SUPPORT GROUP MEETING

TUESDAY 1800

He whipped out his phone to check the time. The meeting started in fifteen minutes. From his lock screen, a photo of Arianwen strumming an acoustic guitar beamed at him. 

He hesitated. He’d tried Al Anon for a while, shortly after Arianwen was born. He’d wanted to do things right, get sober for his family. But he just couldn’t get into it. Alcoholics Anonymous relied heavily on spiritual belief - faith in some higher power that wanted him to get sober. It was an approach that seemed to work for a lot of people, but not for him. 

He glanced back down at his phone. Arianwen looked so happy in the picture, her hand cradling the neck of the guitar like she’d been born that way. Maybe he’d looked that way, once. He didn’t know if Arianwen wanted to pursue music as a career or not, but he knew better than most how easy it was to lose oneself to the darker side of the entertainment industry. Wasn’t it his job, as a dad, to set a good example? Even belatedly?

That decided him. With a shiver, he pushed himself up to his feet, hunching his shoulders against the slight chill in his damp jacket. His pace toward the community center was steady, but unhurried. Maybe this meeting would help. Maybe not. If nothing else, it would keep him out of the pub for another hour, and give him time to dry off.

The meeting room was just as plain as the exterior of the building. Brown berber carpet showed signs of years of wear. The fluorescent lighting was harsh and unflattering. A long folding table with a wood laminate top was shoved against the far wall, boasting a large, stainless steel coffee carafe and a plastic tray of store-bought baked goods.

The center of the room was occupied by a large circle of metal folding chairs. Roughly half of them were occupied. As he entered the room, every person in the room turned to face him.

He froze. His heart pounded in his chest, and his throat clenched. He felt exposed, laid bare before all of those eyes. Objectively, he knew that they, of all people, were least likely to judge him for his drinking. But admitting his problem to himself was vastly different from admitting it to a room full of strangers.

He cast his gaze desperately around the room. To his great relief, there was a single chair right next to the room’s one exit. He settled into it with a shaky sigh, wrapping his arms around his middle to fend off the slight chill.

As one, all of the other attendees turned back around to face the inside of their circle. Directly across from Lachlan’s position by the door, a man stood up. Likely in his mid to late thirties, the man’s chiseled features were disgustingly handsome in that scruffy, magazine model way. His blue eyes were striking next to his wavy dark hair and beard.

The man clapped his hands together. “Okay! Why don’t we get started. I see we’ve got some new faces here, so I’d just like to give a warm welcome. Since we’ve got a newcomer, I’ll introduce myself.” He glanced briefly at Lachlan, before returning his attention to the group. “My name is Angus, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Angus,” the rest of the group chorused. 

“It’s been… let’s see… six months and seventeen days since my last drink. But who’s counting?” A few of the other attendees gave halfhearted chuckles. “So for those of you who are joining us for the first time, this is a judgment-free space. Anything said in this room  _ stays _ in this room. We’re all here to share our experiences and support each other, and we can’t do that if we’re all afraid someone’s going to flap their gob the second they leave here.” A few of the other members nodded and murmured in agreement. “Right then! As always, Tuesdays are for sharing. Stories, experiences, updates, successes, setbacks - whatever you want to share. Does anybody want to go first?”

The entire circle remained silent as Angus locked eyes with Lachlan. None of the others looked. Lachlan pressed his lips together tightly, leaning further back in his chair. Not pressing the issue, Angus looked to the rest of the group. A few people raised their hands. He pointed to one, and the meeting began in earnest. 

Lachlan sat in silence, watching from the sidelines. It seemed like there was no particular rhyme or reason to what was shared. Some people spoke; others didn’t. Some had good news, others bad. There was a short, grumpy-looking bald man with a salt-and-pepper beard, who had started drinking when his mother-in-law sabotaged his marriage. Years later, he and his ex-wife were working through their issues, but he was still struggling with his drinking. There was a bespectacled man with sandy brown hair who, in his own words, “became a different person” when he drank. He’d drank at a company party last week, and had behaved so poorly that he was in danger of losing his job. And there was a beautiful, raven-haired woman with olive skin who drank to cope with her heartless, overbearing mother’s controlling behavior. She’d quit for the sake of her young son, but the stress of an ongoing custody battle left her yearning for the bottle.

Once forty-five minutes had passed, Angus put an end to the sharing session, and passed a battered coffee can around the circle. “Just a reminder that donations, while appreciated, are  _ not _ required. There’s no dues, no membership fee. This just helps us to rent the room.” Once the can made its way back to Angus, he tucked it under his chair. He didn’t offer it to Lachlan, or even glance his way. “Right. So, remember to practice your affirmations every day in front of the mirror. Eat healthy, get some fresh air and exercise, and take care of yourselves. I’ll see you on Thursday, and we’ll share any coping strategies that you find helpful.” 

With that, the meeting was over. Lachlan lingered uncertainly by the door, watching for what would happen next. Most of the attendees left without a word. A few exchanged quick words with Angus. Within five minutes, the two of them were alone.

The younger man walked to the folding table, keeping his back to Lachlan. “I was hoping you’d stick around,” he called over his shoulder as he poured himself a paper cup of coffee. He gestured with it. “Want one?”

“Aye, that’d be great.” Crossing the room, he accepted the proffered cup. A quick perusal of the additives showed only artificial sweeteners and powdered creamer. He’d rather just have it black. He took a sip and grimaced. “Ugh.”

“Yup, decaf,” Angus said ruefully. “I don’t know about you, but every time I quit drinking, I get as jumpy as a virgin at a prison rodeo. Caffeine just makes it worse.” He settled down in one of the folding metal chairs, gesturing for Lachlan to do the same.

“That’s one way to put it,” he agreed. “So… the chair by the door.” He gestured toward the seat he’d taken to watch the meeting from the outside. “You put that there on purpose?”

“Aye. Newcomers usually find the circle sort of intimidating. Asking them to join the circle right away tends to drive them away. I’ve found that letting them watch for a session or two seems to help.” He took a gulp of coffee, his nose wrinkling in a wince. “So! What brings you here?”

Lachlan gave the man an overly patient look. “I’m trying to quit drinking,” he explained, as though talking to a child.

He chuckled. “Guess I walked right into that one, eh? I meant, this is a small group. Most people prefer to go with a bigger, well-known one, like Alcoholics Anonymous. I’m just wondering why you chose us instead.”

Lachlan fidgeted with the rim of his paper cup. “I tried AA once, years ago. It, er, wasn’t a good fit.” Angus gestured for him to continue. “Their whole…  _ thing _ … centers around belief in a higher power.”

“And you don’t believe?”

Lachlan snorted. Despite his religious upbringing, he simply couldn’t accept the idea. If there was a God who wanted him to stop drinking, then it stood to reason that that same God wanted him to stop the harder drugs he’d taken in his youth. If that God intervened to sober him up, then it meant that He’d let Lachlan kill his brother, knowing it would be the catalyst to him giving up the needle. It meant that God had a plan for him, which He chose to enact in the cruellest way imaginable.

He couldn’t believe in such a power. He wouldn’t. It was easier to think that God didn’t exist, or that He simply didn’t care about a dead-ender bum like him.

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

“Fair enough. Well, as I’m sure you can tell, we don’t rely on that here. Our big thing is accountability: taking responsibility for our own actions.” He leaned back, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankle. “Truth be told, I started this group five years ago for a similar reason. I tried AA for years, and it never worked for me. I just never really connected with their philosophy. Not that there’s anything wrong with it,” he hastened to explain. “Their approach works for a lot of people. I’m just not one of them.”

Lachlan frowned. “Five years ago, you said. But you had your last drink six months ago.”

His grin turned decidedly sheepish. “My sobriety is… a work in progress,” he confessed. “Sometimes I’ll go months without a drink. Sometimes a year or two. The struggle never ends, really. In some ways, quitting alcohol is more complicated than quitting illegal drugs.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, the harder stuff isn’t easy to get a hold of, is it?” he asked rhetorically. “Once you quit for a while, lose track of any dealers or contacts, it’s difficult to get a new fix. Difficult, and risky. With booze… there’s no escape.” He gestured vaguely around. “It’s  _ so _ easy to get a drink. There’s pubs. Liquor stores. Restaurants. There’s adverts on billboards and the telly. Hell, once my cravings were set off by watching a cooking show where the chef made a red wine reduction. I don’t even  _ like _ wine, but I would’ve sold my soul for that bottle.”

Lachlan was surprised to realize that he had a similar experience with sobriety. Quitting the serious shit had been a bitch, but once he left the Hollywood deathtrap behind, it was… not easy, but simple, to stay away. Booze was trickier, because it was  _ everywhere _ . “You’ve got experience with that, then?” he asked. “Illegal drugs, I mean.”

Angus’s blue eyes searched Lachlan’s for several seconds. “I do. I had a… we’ll call it a  _ wild _ childhood. Fell in with a bad crowd, ran away from home, and made a regular ass of myself. I did a lot of things I’m not proud of. Ruined lives. I’ve been clean in that sense for… God, it must be fifteen years, now.” He tilted his head back, draining the last of his coffee. “Anyway, I won’t bore you with the details. If you stick around, you’ll probably hear the whole thing someday. Point being, you don’t need to censor yourself here. No matter what you may have done, what counts is that you’re trying to do better. And, er…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “If using a fake name would make you more comfortable, that’s fine, too. Nobody cares.”

Lachlan froze. “Why would I need to use a fake name?” he asked slowly.

Angus smiled at him with knowing eyes. “I didn’t want to say anything, but… well, I recognized you. Your music was a big part of my life back in the day.”

Lachlan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Was there nowhere he could go without being recognized? It had been nearly twenty fucking years! “I don’t--”

“Hey, hey,” he interrupted. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just wanted you to know that your past doesn’t matter here. I mean… I mean, it matters, because all of our pasts shaped who we are today. But nobody’s going to judge, and nobody’s going to pry.”

Lachlan wasn’t sure whether that made him feel better or not. He hadn’t really given much thought to actually sharing his past with a room full of strangers. Confiding in Belle was one thing. The idea of baring his soul to people he didn’t know was… daunting, to say the least.

“I’ll think about it.”

“And that’s all we ask. No need to commit to anything right away. Sit through a few sessions, see if it’s a good fit. If not, no hard feelings.” Angus glanced at his watch with a grimace. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Need to pick my Pop up from work. But it was a pleasure meeting you.” He held his hand out.

Lachlan gripped it and gave it a firm shake. “Aye, it was good, man.” With his free hand he reached into his back pocket. Pulling out a tenner, he handed it to Angus. “Here,” he said. “For the room.”

“You don’t have to--”

Lachlan waved him off. “Take it,” he insisted. “I’ll be back to get my money’s worth.”

“Fair enough,” Angus chuckled, accepting the bill and tucking it into the coffee can. “So we’ll see you on Thursday?”

Lachlan still wasn’t sold on this group being able to help him, but for the first time in a long time, he was cautiously optimistic. 

“Aye. I’ll be there.”

******

It was a half hour to closing on Friday night when Lachlan came to visit Belle next. The sight of his easy smile flooded her with relief. All week she’d been plagued by the worry that she’d done something to drive him off. When he hadn’t shown up on Wednesday, it had taken all of her restraint not to text him.

When he stopped in front of the circulation desk, he glanced around uncertainly. “I wasn’t sure if you still wanted me dropping by,” he admitted.

Frowning, Belle asked, “Why wouldn’t I want a visit from my… uh… Why wouldn’t I want you to visit?”

He winced. “Well, I did make a scene the last two times I came here.”

Had he? She thought back. The last time he’d been here… was right after he’d slept with Lacey, thinking she was Belle. He’d been hungover, hurt, and angry. And the time before that, he’d confronted her about the secrets she was keeping, and she’d stubbornly refused to tell him anything. She understood his reasons for being angry, but this wasn’t something she could allow to continue.

“Okay, yeah, the last two times weren’t great,” she agreed. “Both of those were partly my fault. Still - from now on, if you’re upset with me,  _ don’t _ bring it to my work. Call me, and we’ll figure things out.” She kept her voice gentle, but firm. “I love my job, and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize it. Okay?”

He nodded vigorously, looking abashed. “I’m sorry, Belle. It won’t happen again.”

“I know.” With a sly smile, she leaned her elbows on the desk. “Want to make it up to me?”

His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well… it’s been three days since you’ve kissed me. I need my fix.” Belatedly, she realized how insensitive that was. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh my  _ god, _ I can’t believe I just said that.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. I should be more careful with what I say. I should--”

“ _ Belle. _ ” His hand nudged at her chin, tilting her head until she was looking at him. “It’s fine.  _ I’m fine. _ I’m not made of glass.”

“But—“

“No buts. If there’s a problem, trust me to tell you about it. Otherwise, don’t go looking for trouble where there isn’t any.”

Belle stared deeply into Lachlan’s eyes, searching for any sign of uncertainty or doubt. There was none. He looked worn out, a bit haggard, but otherwise sure of himself. Maybe he really was okay. Still, she couldn’t help worrying. His sobriety was still so new and fragile. She didn’t want to be the cause of a relapse because she said the wrong things or didn’t do the right ones. 

“Okay,” she finally said. 

“Good.” The hand on her chin slid back along her jawline, fingers plunging into her hair. “Now come here and get your fix.”

She giggled at that, some of the tension finally leaving her shoulders. If he could joke about her blunder, maybe things weren’t as bad as she thought. Leaning forward, she kissed him long and slow, humming happily against his lips. His stubble rasped against her chin, and the blunt edges of his fingernails sent tingles running through her where they scraped against her scalp. She simultaneously thanked and cursed the circulation desk for the space it put between them. She would like nothing more than to plaster herself to Lachlan, but she did have a job to do.

Lachlan must have been thinking along similar lines. He broke off their kiss, leaning his forehead against hers. With a husky voice he asked, “When’s your next day off? I want to see you.”

She winced. “I’ve got Sundays off now. But… this Sunday isn’t good.” 

He must have read something in her face, because he frowned. “Is everything alright?”

She pulled back with a sigh. “Yeah. Just… Sunday will be four years since Dad died. Usually I work on the anniversary so I don’t have to think about it too much. But my hours at the diner got cut, so…” She gestured helplessly. “I’d love to see you, but I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”

“Fuck that,” he argued. “You spent days taking care of me while I was stroppy, puking and a complete bloody mess. And you think I won’t want to return the favor when you’re upset?”

It wasn’t that she thought he wouldn’t want to. But… “You don’t have to,” she said, fiddling with the lapel of his denim jacket. “I mean… I’m probably just going to be mopey and sad and not much fun. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh, for—“ He cut himself off with a roll of his eyes. “Look. If you’d rather be alone, that’s fine. I’m not looking to force my way in. But if you want me there, I’m there. Not just for the easy times. So.  _ Do _ you want me there?”

Yes. She did. Of course she did. But it was so hard to  _ ask. _ Unable to force the words out of her throat, she simply nodded.

He bumped her nose affectionately with his. “Then I’ll be there. Is there anywhere you want to go?”

“I don’t think I’m going to be up for going out,” she admitted. “I’m pretty sure Lacey has work, so… my place?”

“I can grab takeaway on my way over,” Lachlan offered, lips quirking in a grin. “We’ll stay in, relax, cuddle, maybe fool around a little.” 

She smiled; it was exactly what she’d said to him at the cemetery the other day. “Sounds perfect.” Her mobile phone beeped, letting her know that the library closed in fifteen minutes. “Listen, I’ve got to finish putting these books away. Why don’t you keep me company and tell me about your week?”

And he did, walking at her side as she slowly pushed the return cart up and down the aisles of bookshelves. Once or twice he helped her to reshelve a book that was just outside of her reach and barely within his. As they did that, he told her about the support group he’d joined. 

“Lachlan, that’s  _ amazing! _ ”

“Well, it’s about time I got my shit together,” he demurred. 

“And you’re doing it!” She stopped pushing the cart, snagging his jacket sleeve so he’d look at her. “Lachlan, what you’re doing is  _ hard. _ It takes strength and courage. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t do it sooner. What’s important is that you’re doing it now. And I’m so, so proud of you for taking control of your life.”

“Well…”

Reaching up, she gently flicked the tip of his nose. “Take the compliment, Lachlan.”

He heaved a dramatic sigh, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her close. She thrilled at the feel of the long planes of his body against hers. “Fine, if I must,” he groused, bussing her quickly on the lips. “But enough about me. How was your week?”

Now it was Belle’s turn to sigh. “Well, my hours got cut, like I mentioned,” she said. 

He frowned. “At your second job, yeah. Are you… okay? Financially?”

She waved him off. She was  _ not _ going to ask for a handout. “I’ll be fine. If I can just ask Lacey to contribute toward groceries, I can make it work.” She wasn’t about to let on just how much of an obstacle that would be.

“And how are things with you and Lacey?”

“Um… bad,” she admitted quietly. “We haven’t talked since I got back.” It was more than that. Neither twin said a word when the other was present, or even looked in their general direction. The silent tension was more deafening than Lacey’s music at its loudest. The whole situation felt like an overfull pot on the verge of boiling over.

Lachlan’s grip tightened around her waist. “You’ll figure things out.”

“Yeah.” She wished she shared his confidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... yeah. Not much happened this chapter. I guess I just wanted a chapter where Belle and Lachlan kind of readjust to normal life, while I figure out what the hell is happening next. I've got a tentative few ideas for the next few chapters, which should be more interesting.


	15. I'm Sober With You, And That Beats Drinking Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Channeled some holiday frustration into parts of this chapter. It probably shows. But I put in some nicer bits, too. I think the good outweighs the bad.

Belle was a mess of nerves. Having a day off work - and on the anniversary of her father’s death, of all days - left her feeling helplessly untethered, like she might float off into space if someone didn’t bring her back to solid ground. At least when she’d taken last weekend off of work, she had something to  _ do _ . Taking care of Lachlan and cleaning his flat kept her busy, gave her purpose. Today? Today there was nothing keeping her thoughts from going down paths she  _ really _ didn’t want to venture down.

And so, she’d spent the morning cleaning a flat that really didn’t need to be cleaned: scrubbing, mopping, dusting, organizing. She opened and sorted through Lacey’s mail, leaving it in two piles on the desk in Lacey’s room. Just as she was about to leave her sister’s room, she paused, looking around. 

Lacey wasn’t a slob. She might not put any effort into cleaning the common areas of the flat, but she kept up on her own room. The floors were swept, the furniture dusted. She didn’t eat or drink in here. But despite being clean, she was  _ messy. _ Stacks of CD cases tilted on every flat so haphazardly that a stiff breeze would likely send them crashing to the floor. Her clean laundry was dumped in a pile on her bed, which had gone unoccupied for the past several days. The small makeup table in the far corner was a mess of bottles, brushes, applicators, pressed powders, and so forth. 

Belle glanced uncertainly toward the door. Lacey hadn’t come home the past several nights. It seemed that she’d taken to crashing at a boyfriend’s house at night instead of relying on Belle for rides home from the bar. Belle should be relieved. She should. But after so many years of getting up in the middle of the night to take care of her dad and/or sister, it was hard to stop. And since Lacey worked on Sunday afternoons and went to the bar right afterward, it was safe to say that Belle had the flat to herself.

She chewed thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek. For some reason, Lacey got snappish when Belle cleaned her room. Which made no sense, really; if Lacey wasn’t going to fold her laundry or put her makeup away, what right did she have to get angry when someone else did it for her? With a nod, she set to work on the makeup table: organizing products, wiping down the countertop, and washing the brushes and applicators in the bathroom sink. Just as she was wiping down the mirror with a paper towel, Lacey stepped into the room - makeup smeared, blonde hair thrown in a messy bun, and still wearing the clothes she wore out last night.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

Belle winced. Busted. “I wasn’t expecting you home,” she said. “Don’t you have work?”

“I  _ always _ take today off. You’d know that if you ever did,” Lacey snarled, plopping herself down on the stool at her makeup table. She rummaged around the drawers, opening and slamming them shut until she found the makeup wipes she was looking for. “And for the millionth fucking time, stay out of my room! I can never find anything when you go through my shit.” Pulling her hair out of the way, she started scrubbing her makeup off with more force than necessary. When the moist pad was more black than white from her thick eyeliner, she balled it up and left it on the tabletop before grabbing another.

A muscle twitched under Belle’s left eye. “Well, if you ever put anything away, you’d be able to find it,” she snapped back, snatching up the crumpled wipe and tossing it in the bin. “God, you can be such a child!”

Lacey stopped scrubbing the makeup from her face, letting her hand fall to the tabletop with a  _ thud _ . She didn’t turn around; their eyes met in the reflection of the mirror. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her voice was surprisingly quiet.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Belle gestured around: at Lacey’s messy room, her wardrobe, her makeup, her utter lack of care for anything that wasn’t herself. “You get drunk more nights than not. I’m always picking up after you. You don’t do  _ anything _ to help me around the flat. And any time you see me find even a  _ speck _ of happiness, you just want to take it away!” Lacey’s eyes narrowed dangerously, her chin jutting out in a stubborn line. What right did  _ she _ have to be offended? Belle was the one being taken advantage of here. “God, sometimes I don’t know why I bothered bringing you here after dad died.”

Lacey whirled around on her stool, her hair falling back down around her shoulders. And she exploded.

******

Lachlan took the stairs of Belle’s apartment building two at a time, whistling a low tune. It was a melody that had popped into his head last night while he was struggling to fall asleep. He’d been so thrilled at his mind’s unexpected creation that he’d gotten up to jot it down on a napkin. The excitement hadn’t faded when he awoke, so he spent all morning fiddling with the strain on his guitar. He was reasonably happy with the chord progression. The rhythm and tempo still needed work, though.

God, how long had it been since his brain had just spontaneously created music? Since Jed died, probably. Since then, every bit of music he’d come out with had felt forced and strained. Even the conception of his solo album, written to help him cope with his divorce and separation from his family, had been a struggle. This new tune, whatever it turned out to be, wasn’t his best work by a long shot. But it was new, and it was his.

Stepping out of the stairwell onto Belle’s floor, he shifted the strap of his overnight bag on his shoulder. Maybe it was presumptuous of him to be prepared to spend the night. Belle hadn’t told him anything one way or the other. Still, he doubted she’d be offended at the assumption; she seemed to enjoy sleeping next to him as much as he did.

As he neared the door to Belle’s apartment, his ears registered the sound of raised voices. Not just raised - two women were screaming at each other at the top of their lungs, so loud that their voices carried all the way down the hallway. Jesus. He hoped the sound wasn’t coming from one of Belle’s neighbors. He definitely didn’t want to have to listen to that shrieking all night, and he doubted she did, either.

Approaching his destination, he came to the realization: that ungodly noise was coming from Belle’s apartment, and both voices had the familiar lilt of an Australian accent. But he’d never heard such raw fury from either of them before.

“No, you don’t  _ get _ to say that! You weren’t there! You didn’t have to watch him get sicker every goddamn day. You didn’t see him shrink, smaller and smaller, until there was nothing left but skin and bones! You just fucked off to Scotland the second you could get away from us!” That must be Lacey.

“Fine! Yes, I ‘fucked off to Scotland.’ Because being half a world away, alone and friendless, was better than being stuck in that hellhole for another second!” Which meant that this was Belle. “And you’re right - I  _ didn’t _ see Dad get sicker. I just got a phone call telling me he was dying. I didn’t even  _ recognize _ him in that hospital bed!”

“Well whose fault is that?!”

“Oh... fuck it all to hell,” Lachlan muttered. His hands balled into fists, the bag of takeaway food crinkling in his fingers. This wasn’t at all what he was expecting to deal with today. Comforting Belle while she was upset, he could do. But this? He wouldn’t even know where to start. If he was even welcome in the first place. 

He stood uneasily outside the door, one hand poised to knock, as the sisters continued to shout at each other. With some regret, he realized that his advice to Belle probably started this mess. Lachlan was beginning to realize that his relationship with Jed was absolutely nothing like Belle’s with Lacey. The brothers had never been ones to let an issue fester. If they had a problem, they had it out right away. Even on the rare occasion they beat the ever-loving shite out of each other, there was never that level of hatred that he was hearing in the sisters’ voices. Comparing the two wasn’t likening apples to oranges; it was likening apples to grizzly bears.

“...can’t just tell me to fuck off any time you want your boyfriend over! It’s my flat, too!”

“Yeah, well, once you actually help pay for rent, or groceries, or, oh, I don’t know,  _ anything at all _ , we’ll talk.”

“ _ You never fucking let me, you unbelievable bitch! _ ”

Okay. That did it. By the sound of things, the sisters were seconds away from coming to blows. He’d been in enough fights in his lifetime to know just how quickly things could get out of hand. He couldn’t hope to help them resolve their argument, but he could at least break it up before someone got hurt. He knocked firmly on the door. The yelling immediately cut off. For a full thirty seconds, nothing happened. Then, the door was wrenched open, and Belle was on the other side. Her flushed face was a mask of anger, embarrassment, and relief in equal parts.

“Lachlan,” she breathed, glancing over her shoulder. “Um… come in.” Stepping to one side, she gestured him in.

He stepped inside, hesitating once he got past the door. As always, the flat smelled of citrus and lavender. Every flat surface was scrubbed to a mirror shine under the many stacks of books. The entire space exuded an air of comfort and tranquility - or it would, if it weren’t for the tension in the air.

Across the room, Lacey stood in silence, her hands balled into fists at her sides. Her straight hair, blonde now, fell limply past the shoulders of her rumpled black dress. One eye was smeared with black eyeliner that looked like it had been slept in; the other looked freshly cleaned. Next to her, Belle looked well put together in her floral print dress and heels.

No one moved or spoke. The air practically vibrated with tension between the three of them. Lachlan’s free hand fumbled with the silver links on his right wrist, the movement crinkling the paper takeaway bag. 

“Oh,” Belle mumbled, “let me take that.” She took the bag to the kitchen and started unpacking the plastic containers. “You can put your bag in my room,” she added.

Well, that answered one question, anyway. With quick, efficient movements, he dropped his bag just inside Belle’s bedroom door. When he turned back around, Belle was still busying herself in the kitchen, and Lacey hadn’t moved. Her jaw was set in an obstinate line.

Christ, this was awkward. He was pretty sure nothing in his life could have prepared him for this moment. Belle and Lacey were both ticking time bombs, wired to blow, and Lachlan was reasonably sure that defusing one would just set off the other. A situation like this demanded delicacy and tact, and his preferred approach was blunt honesty.

Still, he supposed it couldn’t hurt to be polite. “Lacey,” he greeted with a nod. “How’re things?” In the kitchen, Belle stilled.

Lacey huffed. “Oh, just peachy.  _ You  _ try living with an overbearing, hypocritical--”

“Better than a lazy parasite who--”

“ _ Stop! _ ” Lachlan yelled. Both women went quiet. “Christ, will ye both give it a rest? I get it! Ye’re pissed off at each other. Did it ever fucking occur to ye that maybe ye’re both being eejits here?” Hoo boy, he was going to regret that. He was sure of it. Calling your… girlfriend?... an idiot wasn’t the stupidest thing he’d done, but it was far from the smartest. Maybe the smart thing would’ve been to take Belle’s side. He hadn’t seen how the fight started, after all. For all he knew, Lacey had goaded her. God knew he’d never seen Belle fly off the handle like this. Normally she was cheerful and understanding, but right now she looked like she was on the verge of tackling Lacey to the ground and beating the shite out of her. And judging by Lacey’s clenched fists and tense posture, the sentiment was returned.

He took a deep breath. What he was about to suggest was the last thing in the world he wanted to do right now. When the hell had he become the most level-headed person in the room? Had he hit his head on the way here? “Why don’t we sit down and talk about this?” he suggested through gritted teeth.

“What, so you can take Belle’s side? I don’t think so,” Lacey scoffed.

“It’s not like he’d take your side, after what you--”

“ _ Enough! _ ” Jesus. They were going at it like a pair of wet cats. Clearly there would be no getting through to them. It might be best to separate them for now. “Belle, why don’t we pack up and go to my place?”

“Don’t bother,” her sister snarled. “I was just leaving.” She stomped past Lachlan toward the door, snatching her purse along the way. Makeup half scrubbed off, still wearing last night’s dress, she shoved her feet in a pair of trainers and left the flat. The door slammed shut behind her.

“Lock the door behind you!” Belle yelled after her. Once the sound of Laceys stomping footsteps faded, she continued bustling around the kitchen: setting plates on the counter with a bang, slamming silverware down, and angrily chucking the takeout bag in the bin. Eventually, she noticed Lachlan’s eyes on her. “ _ What? _ ”

“Don’t you think that was a little harsh?” he asked.

Belle huffed angrily, roughly spooning food onto the plates. Her haphazard serving resulted in her spilling food on the counter. With a growl, she snatched up a paper tower to wipe up the mess. “I don’t want to talk about Lacey, Lachlan.”

“Belle, I’m just--”

“I said drop it!” She slammed the spoon down on the counter, splattering sauce on the area she’d just cleaned.

A flash of irritation left Lachlan biting back an angry reply. Deep breaths. He counted slowly to ten, then spoke. “I’m pretty damn sure I’m not the one you’re actually pissed off with,” he said, his voice a bit harsher than he intended. “I want to be here for you, Belle, but I can’t do that if you’re going to shut me out. Maybe you should take a few minutes to decide whether you actually want me here.”

She huffed again, her face flushing a bright red. Lachlan turned to give her some privacy so she could process her feelings. If this were his flat, he’d be occupying himself by strumming quietly on his guitar, or looking through his CDs and vinyl for something to listen to. Maybe even excusing himself to another room. Since those weren’t options, he contented himself with looking through the stacks of books on the coffee table. He doubted Belle would mind.

Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t heard of a single one of these. If he was honest, he could admit that he wouldn’t give most of the books a second look if he saw them in a bookstore. The cover art depicted various fantastical things that matched right up with her taste in TV and movies. A golden dragon with a rider on its back. A knight in a scarlet cape, brandishing a sword at a figure on a distant red cliff. A man in a black greatcoat and wide-brimmed hat, standing before a rainy cityscape. A woman holding a lantern in a darkened room, a feathered wing illuminated in the background. 

One book did grab his attention. For one thing, the author was one he’d actually heard of. For another, the cover featured a weathered-looking man in a cowboy hat and duster, wielding a pair of pistols. He stood in an ochre wasteland with a dark silhouette of a peaked tower in the distance. He’d always been a sucker for Westerns. He flipped to the back cover to read the plot summary.

“Lachlan?”

“Hmm?” He looked up from the book. 

Belle was still standing in the kitchen, chewing on her lower lip and fidgeting with the spoon in her hands. All of the fight had left her frame, leaving her looking worn out and exhausted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so tetchy.”

“Come here.” He watched her set the spoon down and cross the room to him. He held out his arms to her, and she stepped into them, melting into him with a sigh. His arms folded around her waist, tugging her closer so she could tuck her head under his chin. Her shaky breaths puffed warmly against his collarbone, but her face remained dry.

They stood like that for several minutes, just soaking each other in. His hands moved soothingly up and down the soft cotton at her back; hers gripped the front of his black T-shirt. Somehow, one of her flyaway curls wound up in his mouth. After a few futile attempts to tongue it out, he gave up. Once her breathing slowed down to match his, he spoke.

“Better?”

She nodded, her hair tickling under his jaw. “A little. I’m - I’m just so  _ angry _ .” Her fingers fisted even tighter in the material at his chest. “I feel like if I don’t hurt something - someone - I’m going to shatter into a million pieces.”

Lachlan nodded. He knew the feeling - that restless, jittery anger that wanted to lash out at anything within arm’s reach. It was exactly how he felt every year, on the anniversary of Jed’s death. For the past twenty years, he’d taken that day in August out of work so he could go on a dawn-til-dusk bender. This would be the first year he faced it sober.

“Does it always hit you this hard?” he asked.

“No. But usually I keep busy so I don’t have to think about it.”

And with that, another piece of the puzzle locked into place, showing him a bit more of the big picture. He and Belle both drowned themselves to avoid dealing with their shite - he in booze, she in work. And not just work, either. If her obsessive cleaning was any clue, she felt compelled to spend nearly every free moment taking care of someone. All this time he’d thought that Lacey was taking advantage of Belle. And honestly? She was. But Belle used her sister as a crutch just as much. They leaned on each other so heavily, each seemingly unable to stand on her own. But instead of supporting each other, they were both determined to trip the other up, either by accident or design.

“Who are you angry with?” he asked. One hand rose to thread through her hair, playing idly with her silky curls. With a contented murmur she released her death grip on his shirt, smoothing her palms up and down his chest. 

“I don’t know. Dad? Lacey? Life in general?” She hesitated, and in a quieter voice added, “Me, maybe? I really don’t know. I just…”

He waited for her to continue. She didn’t. “Just what?” he prompted.

"Just… I picture Dad, when I saw him for the last time. I can’t get it out of my head. He was always this… larger than life figure, you know? He was a big man, and had a personality to match. So when I saw him on that hospital bed, shriveled like a raisin, and his eyes so empty…” She shuddered against him. “I wasn’t even sad when he died.” She laughed breathlessly, but there was no mirth in it. “Isn’t that awful? I was  _ furious _ . I  _ hated _ him for dying. I wanted to bring him back just so I could kill him. I remember standing in the receiving line at the wake, staring at that open casket at a body that didn’t look a thing like my father, feeling like a fucking  _ monster _ for not shedding a single tear.” 

Lachlan sighed. This wouldn’t do. He was here to make Belle feel better, not make her dwell on her poisoned thoughts. Casting his eyes about the room for inspiration, he settled on the book he’d been eyeing before. “Tell me a good memory about him.”

She pulled back, and he mourned the loss of her closeness - even that damn hair in his mouth. “A good memory?” she repeated.

“Aye. Something from when you were a kid.” She frowned helplessly, and he forged on. “Tell you what. I’ll tell you a good memory about Jed, and when I’m done, you can tell me one about your dad.”

“Okay.” Sliding his hands down her arms, he tugged her down to the couch - Lachlan sitting upright, with Belle curled into his side. He grabbed the book from the coffee table.

“I told you I loved classic Western movies as a kid, yeah?” Belle nodded against his chest. They both stared at the gunslinger on the cover of the book he held. “I was  _ obsessed _ with cowboys. Every Sunday afternoon, the local cinema would play old movies. They’d show Westerns every third Sunday of the month, and I devoured them.  _ Shane. The Magnificent Seven. High Noon. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.  _ Dozens more. Between my cowboy obsession and Jed’s  _ Treasure Island _ fixation, we were insufferable. Used to play ‘Cowboys and Pirates’ at all hours. Mam had to make a ‘no weapons at the supper table’ rule.”

Belle giggled at that. “Cowboys and Pirates? How does that game work?”

“Poorly.” A goofy, reminiscent grin spread across his face. He could picture it almost like it was yesterday: him with the twin bent sticks he referred to as his “six-shooters” tucked in his belt, Jed with a longer branch as his cutlass, making up their game as they went. Sometimes it was pirates and outlaws against the world; other times war broke out between the two groups when one - usually Jed - decided to backstab the other. “We used to make the rules up as we went. And any time I was ‘winning,’ Jed would change up the rules on me. I remember one time, we were play-fighting, and Jed climbed up on this huge boulder in our back garden. Said it was his ship, and he couldn’t be shot there, the little shit. When I tried to climb up, he said…” he pitched his voice high and nasally in a poor imitation of his brother’s young voice, “‘you can’t get me, Lach. Cowboys can’t swim. There’s no water in the Old West.’” 

Belle was grinning right along with him. “So what did you do?”

“Threw the mother of all tantrums, is what I did,” he snorted. “Screaming, stamping my feet, carrying on. Da took one look at me and ducked back into his workshop without a word. An hour later I was off in a corner somewhere, sulking, and he brought me this old hobby-horse I hadn’t played with in at least a year. He’d painted it blue and green, and hunted down some fake aquarium plants and glued them to its mane. Told me it was a kelpie, and there wasn’t a loch or sea it couldn’t cross.”

“What was Jed’s reaction?”

“Oh, the pirates and cowboys miraculously came to a new alliance. And if I’d just been a bit more patient, I would have seen that it was  _ obviously _ his plan all along,” he said with a roll of his eyes.. “That’s how Jed always was. If he didn’t like a rule, he’d either break it, or change it to suit him. And if that didn’t work, he’d have you convinced that he had a good reason for flouting the rules. He could talk his way out of any sticky situation he managed to get himself into.”

Belle snuggled in closer to his side, resting her head on his shoulder. “I bet he was a riot,” she murmured.

“Aye, he was,” Lachlan agreed. “Always getting himself in and out of scrapes, usually with me tagging along at his heels. We got busted more often than not, and sometimes he’d leave me taking the rap for something that was all his idea.” He swallowed against the familiar, painful lump in his throat. Thinking about Jed was always painful, but it was good to be able to talk about some of the better times. “But any time I was neck-deep in shite, he was always the first one there to pull me out of it.”

Humming thoughtfully, she said, “He sounds like a good brother.” He didn’t miss the note of envy in her voice.

“The best.” He held his right hand up, the silver links of his bracelet jingling with the motion. “This bracelet was his, you know. He bought it the day before our first real gig - the one that got us scouted. He insisted it was lucky, and never took it off after that.” Clearly, whatever luck it may have once had was long gone. Still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to let it go. “It’s not much, but it reminds me of him. Do you, er, have anything like that? For your parents?”

Belle sat up, pulling away from him, and frowned.

******

“Not really,” she admitted. “Mum and Dad were never really ones for keepsakes. We were never one of those families that took a lot of pictures or anything like that. Mum had a few pieces of jewelry, but… I pawned them.”

“ _ Pawned _ them?” Lachlan asked incredulously. 

Unbidden, an image of a teenaged Lacey popped into her head, screaming through her tears.  _ You had no right! Those were Mum’s rings. They should be with the family, not in some sketchy pawn shop! _ “What the hell was I supposed to do?” she asked defensively. “We needed to  _ eat! _ I was too young to get a reliable job, and Dad drank all the money away. I had to do something!”

“Whoa, whoa.” Lachlan held his hands up placatingly. “No judgment. Alright? It just surprised me.”

Belle scrubbed at her eyes with a groan. It seemed that she was determined to antagonize everyone around her today. Lachlan didn’t deserve that. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I swear I’m not trying to be a jerk today. I just… I agonized over that decision for weeks. I didn’t want to do it. But when you spend months checking every pay phone, every vending machine, every couch cushion for a bit of spare change so you can keep everyone fed a little longer, you start looking at things for their monetary value instead of the sentimental one. Maybe I was a little ruthless.” Her lips quirked. “Lacey definitely thought so.”

Lachlan draped his arm over the back of the couch in a clear invitation for her to lean against him again, and Belle was struck, not for the first time, with the notion that he was showing her a lot more patience than she probably deserved. Still, she made no move to lean back against him. Instead, she got up and started pacing to expend some of the jittery energy that had been plaguing her all day.

“Wasn’t there anybody who could help you?” he asked. 

She waved her hand agitatedly with a helpless shrug. “Nobody I trusted not to take me and Lacey away from Dad and separate us. Maybe I should’ve let them. But that just felt like failure. I thought… maybe if Lacey and I stayed with Dad, he’d snap out of it, eventually. For his family.” 

“But then you came to Scotland.” Lachlan leaned forward in his seat, looking like he couldn’t decide whether he should be sitting or standing.

“Then I came to Scotland,” she agreed. “As soon as I got my degree six years ago, I packed a bag and left. I came here with nothing but a few important documents, a suitcase of clothes, and…” She paused. “Actually, I do have one thing. Just a sec.”

With short, mincing steps she hurried to her bedroom, nearly tripping over Lachlan’s bag where it rested next to the door. Kneeling beside her bed, she plunged her hand between the mattress and boxspring, fumbling around until her fingers alighted on what she sought. A quick tug produced a worn, leather bound sketchbook, its pages nearly bursting out of the binding.

Cradling the book close to her chest, she hastened back to Lachlan. She held the book out to him gingerly with both hands. “This is--”

“Your adventure book.” Had she told him about that? Yes, she recalled. On their first date. Just before their first kiss. “You said your dad bought it for you when you were… what, ten years old?”

Belle grinned, pleased. “I can’t believe you remember that!” 

His answering self-assured smirk should be illegal; the things it did to her were positively sinful. “When you’re on a date with a beautiful, fascinating, kind, intelligent woman, and you’re hoping for a second date, you bloody well pay attention to what she’s saying.” Belle’s face flushed hot at the compliment. How could he still make her blush and stammer like a schoolgirl was beyond her. Before she could say anything in return, he patted the couch cushion next to him. “Come on. Show me.”

There was no way she was going to bore him with that. “You don’t want to see that,” she demurred. 

He fixed her with a level look. “Trust me, Belle, I’m  _ not _ that polite. If I weren’t interested, I’d find a way to change the subject. Now come sit down and show me.”

With a mental shrug, Belle sat next to Lachlan, scooting in close so they were touching from shoulder to knee. The pages crackled as she opened the book. “It’s very delicate,” she warned. “I stuck all the pictures in with craft glue, but it’s really old. Some of them have come loose.”

They each supported one cover of the book with one hand while Belle explained what was depicted on each page. Lachlan asked questions occasionally, which she was happy to answer. There were pictures from a variety of countries. The Buddhist temples in China, and the Great Wall. The architecture and culture of Venice, especially during Carnevale. The caverns of New Zealand - and, she blushingly added, the old sets of the Lord of the Rings movies (Lachlan chuckled and bumped her shoulder at that). Safari experiences in South Africa. The Matterhorn. Machu Picchu. The list went on. And peppered in among her dream destinations were things she wanted to learn and experience. Horseback riding. Self-defense. Lockpicking. Fencing, or archery. Learning a second language. Riding a motorcycle. Parasailing. The list went on and on… and she hadn’t accomplished a single thing off of the list. She tried not to think too hard about that.

Belle flipped through the pages herself, careful to make sure that no pictures came loose, but Lachlan dictated the pace. They flipped quickly through the pages depicting destinations in America. Belle understood. It must be painful for Lachlan, knowing that there were places that were barred to him. He lingered longest on the pages showing the lochs and castles of Scotland, which made sense. Surely those were familiar and comforting to him. There were other pages he dwelled on, seeming to commit aspects of them to memory, but Belle couldn’t spot anything particularly different or interesting about them.

“Where did you get all of the pictures?” Lachlan asked as they got to the end of the filled pages.

“Well, I told you that my dad bought this book for me because he thought it was a journal.” He nodded at the reminder. “Once he found out what I was using it for, he started hunting down pictures for me. He was in and out of thrift stores so often that they’d give him first pick of old magazines, and a nearby travel agency kept a stack of brochures aside just for me. Every time I finished a page, he wanted to hear all about it. Until Mum died, anyway.” Closing the book, she set it gently off to the side.

Draping an arm around her shoulders, he let his fingers play with her curls. “Sounds like he really wanted to be involved,” he observed.

She shrugged. “Engh. I guess. I think he was just relieved to get me talking about something that wasn’t wizards or dragons. He never really knew what to make of my taste in reading.” 

“No, but he still tried to connect with you, didn’t he? He went through all that effort for your hobby.”

It was a nice thought, but one Belle had a hard time believing. It was hard to picture her dad caring about anything. “Maybe,” she said noncommittally. 

“Hey.” He gave her shoulder a gentle shake. “I may be new to the whole dad thing, but trust me: he cared. He wouldn’t have done all that if he didn’t.”

Belle didn’t know how to feel about that. Which would hurt more - the idea that her father never cared all that much in the first place, or the idea that he’d loved her, but even that love wasn’t enough to get him to put down the bottle?

That was something she didn’t want to contemplate too closely. Looking around for a distraction, she eventually settled on the kitchen. “Oh no, our food’s gone cold,” she realized. “With everything that happened, I got distracted. You must be starving.”

“Not really,” Lachlan disagreed. “To be honest, I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

She arched a brow at him. “You  _ are _ eating though, right?” She hoped he wasn’t neglecting his health. Keeping his strength up would be instrumental to his continued sobriety.

“Aye, what I can. Some days more than others.”

“Good.” She couldn’t be with him at all hours to make sure he took care of himself - no matter how much she’d like to - but she could at least check in with him. “Why don’t I warm the food up? We can have dinner, maybe throw on a movie after.”

“Sounds good.”

While Belle microwaved the plates of food, Lachlan set the table. The two of them ate in companionable silence, sharing warm glances and smiles. Lachlan offered her a bite of food between his thumb and forefinger, which she leaned forward to accept between her lips. Licking the sauce off his fingers had his eyes darkening with lust, and a light nip of her teeth on the pad of his thumb drew a hiss from him. With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, Belle toed off her shoes under the table. Reaching out with one foot, she teased at the hem of his jeans with her toes.

Lachlan leaned back in his seat with a satisfied smirk, seemingly content to let her do as she would. Her toes strayed up into the leg of his jeans, past the hard bone of his inner ankle to play with the rough hair on his calves. Nibbling and tonguing at her lower lip, she tried to slide her foot higher, but the hem of his trousers was too tight to allow her any further. A chuckle bubbled free from his throat at Belle’s frustrated noise. Reluctantly, she tugged her foot free and contented herself with running her toes up and down the inseam, straying up, up, up, just a bit higher with each pass until she was lightly toeing his inner thigh. Lachlan held himself carefully still. He wasn’t smiling now; his breath puffed laboredly through flared nostrils, and his eyes blazed as he looked her up and down like he wanted to devour her. Her foot couldn’t quite reach where she really wanted to go, and she wondered if he was hard. Squirming in her seat to alleviate the growing ache between her own legs, she slowly let her foot slide back down the way it had come. 

She leaned in closer to Lachlan. He reciprocated the gesture until they were sharing the same breath, nudging her nose with his in supplication for her mouth. She tilted her head up, but kept her lips just out of his reach when he attempted to close the distance between them. He made a frustrated noise, provoking a giggle from her. His answering growl promised retribution for her teasing.

With a light brush of her lips against his, she whispered, “Lachlan… I think… we should… do the dishes.” 

Before he could react, she got up from her chair with a giggle and walked toward the kitchen sink. She hazarded a playful glance over her shoulder, biting her lip invitingly. For a split second he looked utterly flummoxed, and a bit put out. Then he caught on. With a devilish growl that wreaked havoc on her libido, he lunged after her. Not willing to give up her game just yet, she slipped through his fingers and bolted for the living room with a squeal, putting the sofa squarely between them. He played along with a feral grin, letting her keep the couch between them even as he circled around to get to her. 

Finally he feinted left before circling around to the right. By the time Belle caught onto his trick, he’d already snagged an arm around her waist, tugging her back firmly to his front. His free hand swept her hair to the side, his mouth leaving a hot, wet trail of kisses down the side of her neck. Her delighted laugh trailed off into a groan, and she tilted her head further to give him better access.

“We… we really should… ohhh… do the dishes,” she teased breathlessly.

“Sod the dishes,” he rumbled, grinding the thick line of his erection into the cleft of her arse.

His mouth found the sensitive junction of her neck and shoulder, and her thoughts scattered. Dishes? What dishes? There was nothing but her and Lachlan - his hands, his mouth, and the rigid outline of his cock pressing against her in an insistent rhythm. She arched back into him, eliciting a groan and a light scrape of his teeth that sent a jolt of pure sensation straight to her core.

“More,” she panted. He obliged with another light brush of his teeth. “Harder.” A brief hesitation, then he sucked the tender flesh into his mouth, biting hard enough to leave a mark. Belle cried out, and suddenly she was turned in his arms, their lips meeting in a frantic kiss. Her tongue thrust into his mouth even as his hands delved up her skirt, coaxing one leg up around his hip. That was better; at this angle, he could thrust directly where she wanted him, and he didn’t hesitate to do just that, drawing pleasured moans from both of them.

Impatiently, Belle shoved his T-shirt upward, resenting the moment they had to pull apart to get the garment up over his head. Before she could tug him in for another kiss he was returning the favor, stripping her dress up over her head. His hot skin against hers felt so much more wonderful than the clothes that had separated them. She lunged in for another kiss, but he held her back. 

“Bed?” he asked.

She shook her head frantically. “Later. Want you too much.” Plunging her fingers into the long hair at his nape, she yanked him in for an insistent kiss that he seemed only too happy to return. One of his hands plunged into his pocket, and she heard the sound of a foil packet hitting the coffee table before he was encouraging her to wrap her other leg around him so she could straddle him while he lowered them both down onto the couch. His hands roamed her back restlessly before settling on her arse, encouraging her to grind down against him. She complied with a breathy moan into his mouth, which he wholeheartedly returned. Soon they’d established a rhythm that worked for both of them. Their kisses grew frantic and messy, and soon he was kissing frantically down her jaw.

“Are you close, Belle?” Lachlan asked. “Do you need to come?”

She nodded, but reared up so she was sitting upright. He frowned, confused. “Want you in me,” she explained, reaching for the condom on the coffee table. She slid out of her knickers while he undid his fly and shoved his jeans and boxers down. 

In the end, they didn’t even finish stripping; she still wore her bra, and his jeans were bunched up around his knees while she rolled the condom on. Soon she was sinking down on him with a breathy moan, loving the feeling of him filling her while his large hands gripped her hips. He encouraged her to find a rhythm she liked, thrusting up into her to match her tempo. 

“God, Lachlan,” she moaned, low and deep. “Feel so good.” By instinct one hand strayed down toward her clit. She hesitated, wondering if he was the type to get offended when a woman needed a bit more stimulation.

She needn’t have worried. If anything, his eyes darkened further as he nodded. “Yes, Belle, yes,” he gasped. “Ride me. Touch yourself for me. Let me watch you.”

At the first touch of her fingers, she cried out, grinding herself down harder on his cock. Lachlan’s eyes were riveted on her, mouth open and features slack. His gaze flickered up and down, seemingly taking in every inch of her while she fucked him. He looked awestruck, like she was doing something miraculous, instead of selfishly taking her pleasure from him.

“That’s it, Belle!” he cried. “Come for me! Come on my cock!”

His words sent her hurtling over the edge. The sensations built to a massive crescendo, bursting behind her eyes and shorting out her brain. Her legs locked under her, slowing her movements to a stuttering halt. She cried out in a combination of ecstasy and dismay.

Sensing the problem, Lachlan thrust under her, using his hands on her hips to guide her through her pleasure. Finally, when he worked her through the final throes of her climax, she collapsed forward onto his chest, tucking her face into his neck and gasping into his hair. His hands roamed her back restlessly, warm against her cooling sweat. After a minute or two, she lifted her head, bleary blue eyes meeting heated brown.

“God, I love your cock,” she murmured. He twitched, still hot and hard inside of her. With a mischievous grin, she tightened her muscles experimentally around him.

His hands shot back down to her hips, grabbing her in a bruising grip as he bucked helplessly under her. “Jesus! Don’t do that,” he gasped. She did it again. He drove himself up into her, pulling her down with every thrust while he strove for his own completion. Burying her face back in his neck, she sucked and licked his throat, loving the salt of his sweat. A long swipe of her tongue around the shell of his ear drew a frantic cry from him, and before she knew it he was shaking and groaning through his own climax. She rode him through it, gradually slowing her movements until his quaking stopped.

They lay that way on the couch for a few moments before Lachlan gripped the condom by the base and reluctantly pulled out of her. He stood up to take care of the condom, and nearly tripped over the jeans that were still wrapped around his knees. They both shared a snicker at their state of dress. Making up her mind, Belle stepped back into her knickers, leaving her dress crumpled on the floor. Lachlan took a cue from her by tugging his boxers back up over his hips while kicking his jeans off to the floor. Once he finished chucking the condom in the bin he collapsed onto the couch with a contented sigh, stretching out onto his side. Belle spooned up in front of him, nesting snugly up to his front while he draped an arm over her waist.

“So,” she said, “That was the ‘chill’ part of the evening. What say we get to the Netflix part?”

Lachlan burst out laughing.

******

Lying in bed with an armful of gorgeous librarian, Lachlan rumbled contentedly while Belle rained slow, sweet kisses over his chest. His fingers sifted through the silky, floral-scented curls, luxuriating in her warmth and downy softness. The second round of sex this evening had been just as explosive as the first, leaving him feeling utterly boneless and content. Had he been having difficulty sleeping? He could sleep for a year straight just like this.

Abruptly, those enchanting little kisses stopped. He grunted in protest.

“Lachlan?”

“Mm? What is it, Beautiful?” He opened his eyes and saw that she was already looking at him.

Her lower lip disappeared into her mouth; by habit, he gently tugged it back out with his thumb. “I guess I’m just wondering. Are we… Is this a thing?”

He blinked. “Are you asking if we’re… exclusive? Official? Going steady?”

Her nose wrinkled. “I wasn’t sure how to phrase it, but yeah.”

“I sure as fuck hope so. You know I’m crazy about you, right?”

She hummed happily, resting her head over his heart. “I hoped so. I’m pretty smitten with you, myself.”

_ Smitten. _ She was  _ smitten _ with him. Thanking God for the darkened room so Belle couldn’t see the absolutely ludicrous grin that spread across his face, he snuggled deeper into the covers. The day had started out on a rough note, but they’d managed to turn it around. He wasn’t fooled; there were a lot of unresolved issues between Belle and Lacey, which would probably need to be addressed sooner or later. But for now he had an incredible woman in his arms, and she was  _ smitten _ with him. And after seeing the contents of her book, he had some ideas for their next date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're starting to see a bit of Lacey's issues with Belle. Two people, put in a shitty situation, with different priorities. Conflict is inevitable. We'll be seeing more detail in future chapters.


	16. I'm Surprised That You've Never Been Told Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my basic-ass taste in men. Because the only thing hotter to me than an older, long-haired, guitar-playing man with a tragic past is an older, long-haired, guitar-playing man with a tragic past on...
> 
> Well. You'll see.

As Lachlan settled into his computer chair on Tuesday evening, hair still wet from his shower, he felt a quiver of apprehension in his gut. The last time he’d spoken to Arianwen, he’d been stupid enough to have a few drinks in front of her. He couldn’t be angry with her for telling her mother about his drinking. Sure, he’d been pissed off at Catherine for canceling their plans to visit him here in Scotland. But at the end of the day, he had no one to blame for that but himself.

If anything, he was tempted to thank his daughter for going to her mother. As exasperating and humiliating as it was to be taken to task by his ex wife, she’d given him the kick in the arse he needed to quit drinking. Every moment of sobriety was still an uphill battle, the call of the drink ever present in his ear, but the physical symptoms of alcohol withdrawal were finally starting to pass. His appetite was gradually starting to return, and today was the first day since he’d quit drinking that he hadn’t woken up with a pounding headache. Actually, between withdrawal headaches and hangovers, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up without a headache. With his frayed nerves, constant cravings, and the emotional rawness hitting him full force after years of being numbed by booze, he couldn’t say he felt great. Still, he felt better than he had in years. And he had his daughter to thank for setting things in motion.

But he hadn’t exactly made a great impression, drinking in front of her. Again. Judging by the emails they’d sent back and forth last week, she didn’t seem to be pulling away from him - a fact for which he was immensely grateful. He just hoped he hadn’t fucked up his relationship with his daughter too badly.  _ Again. _

His computer pinged, letting him know that Arianwen was calling. He accepted the call, grinning when his daughter’s smiling face popped up on his screen. “Hey, Arianwen. How’ve you been?”

“Doing alright,” she said. “I, uh, I missed talking to you last week. Mom told me what was going on. I get it, sort of, but I just wanted you to know.” Her anxious brown eyes met his. “Is that okay? You know, that I… missed you?”

Okay? Was that  _ okay _ ? It was everything he wanted, and honestly more than he’d hoped for. “Better than,” he said, her relieved smile provoking an answering grin from him. “I missed you too, sweetheart.”

Her cheeks flushed red at that. “So how are you doing?” she asked. “Mom told me that quitting can be hard. Are you okay?”

“It is hard,” he agreed with a nod. “Addiction is… well, it’s something I really hope you’ll never have to experience for yourself. But I’ve had help.”

Arianwen’s smile turned decidedly sly. “You mean the librarian?”

He nodded. “Belle’s been by my side every step of the way,” he admitted. “But I wasn’t just talking about her. You’ve helped, too.”

“M-me?” she asked, gesturing to herself with a confused frown. “But I didn’t do anything.”

“You helped me realize I had a problem,” he told her. “You going to your mother was exactly what I needed.”

“I felt so bad about that,” she admitted. “I mean… mom always told me to come to her if one of my friends was… like that,” she said, hedging around using the actual words. “But I wasn’t sure if I should do that with you.”

Lachlan swallowed against the ache in his throat as pride welled in his chest. “You did the right thing,” he said in as reassuring a tone as he could muster. Some of Belle’s words from the weekend of his detox popped into his head, and he paraphrased them as best he could. “The right thing isn’t always the easiest thing to do, but you did it anyway. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

To his horror, Arianwen’s lower lip wobbled before the young girl burst into tears. Oh fuck, what had he done wrong now? His heart felt like it was being ripped in two as he helplessly watched his daughter sobbing through his computer monitor. In that moment, his craving for a drink was nothing next to his desire to reach through the screen to give her a comforting hug. He silently cursed himself for the deportation that separated them.

“I’ve w-wanted to hear you s-say that for years,” she said, forcing the words out around the gasping sobs that wracked her thin shoulders.

Christ, that made him feel even worse. She wasn’t crying because he’d somehow managed to innocently stick his foot in his mouth; his utter absence from her life for the past ten years was what was hurting her. Guilt, that all-too-familiar emotion, sunk into the pit of his stomach. It would fit in perfectly, like the missing piece of a puzzle, with the rest of the remorse he carried for his actions and inactions: Jed’s death, his estrangement from his parents, his drunken idiocy, the alienation of his friends in California.

As he watched his daughter’s sobs taper off into quiet weeping, a thought occurred to him. There was nothing he could do about his other regrets in life. Jed and his parents were dead. He was deported. Warren, Julian and Beau were out of his reach for the next ten years, until the deportation period was over. But Arianwen was here. Well, halfway ‘round the world from him, yes, but he was finally, after all this time, forming a relationship with her. Letting himself be consumed by guilt for the things he should’ve done wouldn’t undo the damage he’d done. It was only by moving forward and resolving to be better that he could be the father she deserved.

The guilt still hurt. It probably always would. But running from it had only made things worse. Maybe the key was to learn from it, instead.

“I’m sorry I never told you that growing up,” he said quietly. “You should’ve heard it half a million times by now. I can’t do anything to change that, but I promise I’ll do my damndest to tell you so often, you’ll get sick of hearing it.”

She let out a weak, watery giggle, wiping her eyes with one hand. “Sounds good.”

“And you know,” he added, “you’ve done more for me than just telling your mother when I was out of line.”

“What do you mean?”

“I called Catherine a few days after my last drink,” he told her. “I had her send me pictures of you. Any time I feel like I need a drink, I pull out my phone and scroll through them.”

She frowned in confusion. “Pictures of me? Why me?”

His leg jittered nervously under the table. The honest answer to that question could open him up to a lot of questions he wasn’t ready to give her the answers to. He couldn’t tell her about her grandparents, about her uncle. He wasn’t ready. But damn it, Arianwen deserved to know how much she meant to him. “They remind me that I still have family,” he said. “And that that family is worth doing anything for.”

For a few minutes, both father and daughter alike looked away from their screens, sniffling quietly and wiping their eyes discreetly.

Arianwen broke the silence first. “So, um, the librarian. You said her name’s Belle?”

He nodded. “Aye, Belle.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

He grinned wryly. “She said the same about yours.” Visions danced in his head of Arianwen and Belle meeting someday. Would they get along? He couldn’t imagine Arianwen disliking Belle on principle. Hell, he’d been an utter prat when he’d met his daughter and ex-wife for brunch just a few short months ago, and she didn’t seem to hold it against him. And Belle was kindness personified, to everyone except her sister. And maybe herself.

“So… is she like, your girlfriend?”

A mere two days ago, he wouldn’t have known how to answer that. He’d known pretty much from the day he met her that there was something special about Belle - something that drew him in and made him want to be better. From their first date, he’d known he wasn’t interested in something casual and low-key. He wanted it all: the explosive sex, the cuddling, fun dates and boring nights in. He wanted to be there for both her highs and her lows. After last weekend, he was starting to think that just maybe he could be the man she could lean on when she was too weak to stand on her own, just as he accepted her support when he needed her. 

But between her secrets and his stupidity, they’d nearly ruined the tenuous thing growing between them. In the aftermath of that, Lachlan had been too nervous to ask to define the relationship, afraid that trying to label things would somehow cause it all to vanish like a burst soap bubble. Thank god Belle had had the courage to speak up.

“Aye, she is,” he confirmed.

“Do you think…” Arianwen fiddled with the ring on her thumb. “Do you think she’d want to meet me when we come to Scotland next month?”

Relief flooded Lachlan at the question. So Catherine hadn’t canceled their trip to visit, after all. He’d held out hope that she wouldn’t once she heard that he’d given up the drink, but he honestly hadn’t been sure. “I bet she’d love that. But enough about me,” he added, changing the subject. “Tell me what’s going on with you. How’s your summer been?”

“Well, me and the band had practice last night,” she replied. “We’re definitely gonna play at Homecoming. It’s only a couple months away, so we’re trying to put together a set list.”

“That’s great!” 

“Yeah, I guess,” she mumbled.

Lachlan leaned back in his chair with a frown, looking closer at his daughter. Arianwen chewed the inside of her cheek nervously, her eyes downcast and uncertain. She didn’t look like the confident young woman who had seemed so passionate about music when they’d met up in California for the last time. 

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“No…” At his unconvinced look, she sighed. “It’s no big deal. Just, the rest of the band wants to play some of my songs. I’d rather just do covers.”

“Why’s that?”

She shrugged, her eyes lowering to stare at something off camera. “I dunno. I guess… I guess it’s less personal. You know?” She frowned, seeming to grapple with the words she wanted. “It’s like… if we play covers, and nobody likes us, it just means we picked the wrong songs, or didn’t play the songs right. If we play  _ my _ songs, and everybody hates them…” She looked at the camera then, her eyes terrified and vulnerable. “That’s not just them saying I suck at guitar, or I have bad taste in music. I put  _ myself _ in those songs. So if the whole school hates them, they hate part of  _ me _ . Does that make sense?”

“It makes perfect sense,” he assured her, remembering the days in Manchester when he and Jed were just a two-man band, before they’d met Jeff and Pete. Their first half-hour set at a dive bar had ended ten minutes early when they’d been booed off the stage. It had taken two weeks of coaxing, ribbing, and bickering to convince Lachlan to put himself out there again.

He’d love to tell Arianwen that the audience’s opinions didn’t matter, but the fact was, they did. Any artist who put their work out there for audiences to consume would say the same. Creating art was something one did for oneself. Showing it to the world was something you did when you valued the opinions of others. Didn’t matter if it was a renowned critic or a roomful of drunks; rejection  _ hurt _ . 

He wouldn’t lie to her about the vulnerability inherent in performing one’s own songs onstage. But maybe he could ease her into it.

“Play for me.”

She eyed him warily. “What?”

“You’ve got your guitar, right?” She nodded. “So play for me. It’ll be good practice.”

“I dunno…”

He gave her a disarming grin. “C’mon. Show me what you’ve got.”

“Um… okay.” She slid out of her chair and out of view of the camera. He heard her fumbling with something, and then the familiar clicks of a guitar case being unclasped. Soon she was back onscreen, an acoustic guitar cradled in her hands. “This one’s, um… I’m still working on it,” she confessed.

“I’m sure it’ll be great.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and turned the volume up a notch.

Screwing her eyes shut, she took a deep, shaking breath, and began to play. The fingers of her left hand glided effortlessly over the fretboard while the right plucked notes with her pick. Soon her playing was accompanied by singing. Her voice was untrained, singing more from the throat than the diaphragm, but no less sweet for it. Lachlan watched in entranced silence as she played, riveted by every chord and lyric until she let the last note fade.

Song finished, she finally opened her eyes. “I’m still working on it,” she mumbled, avoiding looking at the camera.

“Sweetheart, that was great!” he insisted. “You wrote that on your own?”

“I guess.” 

He didn’t bother trying to hide the silly, proud smile on his face. “Well, it’s a damn good song,” he told her. “In fact…” He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, crossing the room to where his guitar rested on its stand.

“Lachlan? Where’d you go?”

Plopping back into his seat, he cradled his own guitar in his lap. “Teach me,” he said.

“What?”

“Teach me your song,” he clarified. “I want to learn it.”

She shook her head. “You don’t… you don’t have to do that,” she demurred. 

He snorted. “‘Course I don’t. I want to.” 

Arianwen’s face slowly lit up with a shy smile. “Really? You mean it?”

“I mean it,” he confirmed. He tossed his head to dislodge a stray hair from his eyes. “Now come on. You started on a D, right?”

“Yeah.” She strummed each chord with Lachlan playing a beat after, singing the note as they went. “D… C… G.... C…”

They spent the next thirty minutes playing Arianwen’s song, experimenting with rhythm, tempo, lyrics and keys, until it was time for Arianwen to get ready for work and Lachlan to head to his meeting. 

“It was good to see you,” he said as they both put their instruments away. “Same time next week?”

“Sounds good. And, um, Lachlan?” She took a deep breath. “Iloveyoubye!” And before he could say anything, the screen went black.

A soft smile spread across his face. “I love you, too,” he murmured to the blank screen.

Coming back to Scotland had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life. Harder than his divorce. Harder, in its own way, than getting clean and sober. When he’d arrived here with little more than his guitar and a carryon bag of clothes, his expectations for his new life had been low. Find his family (that one had been a bust). Get a dead-end job to pay the bills. Figure out some way to connect with his teenage daughter over the distance that divided them. And apart from that, try not to do anything  _ too _ stupid when he drank himself into a stupor.

But the new life he was building was more than he’d dared to dream. He had his sobriety - new and fragile though it was. His daughter loved him, and they were finally forging the connection he hadn’t had the time to cement in his last days in California. His job might not be a dream job, but it was honest work with decent blokes, and it paid more than enough for his needs now that he wasn’t pissing half his money away on booze. Most unexpected of all, he had Belle. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more: the depth of his feelings for her, or that by some miracle they seemed to be returned. 

For too many years, he’d been almost dead. All that time hiding out in California, he’d been doing little more than surviving. Today, he felt gloriously alive. He finally had a life that felt worth experiencing to the fullest. And he’d be damned if he did anything to cock it up.

******

“Belle, dear, could you come here a moment?”

Looking up from the list of overdue books, Belle glanced over her shoulder at Evelyn’s office. The door was ajar - something that, until recently, had been nearly unheard-of for the head librarian. But lately, a tentative friendship had formed between the two women, and Belle had been spending more of her time in Evelyn’s office, listening to stories the older woman told about her decades working at the library. To the three other librarians, she was still the frosty Mrs. Campbell. With Belle, she’d struck up a tentative friendship.

Marking her place on the list, she entered Evelyn’s office to see the older woman poring over a three-ring binder, one strand of hair escaping her otherwise immaculate steel-gray bun. “You wanted to see me?”

Evelyn raised her head with an absent smile. “Aye, I was hoping you could do me a favor,” she said. “I’ve been going over the library’s budget for next year, and I think I’ve got it sorted, but I’d really like to have a second pair of eyes to look it over.”

Belle blinked in surprise. Balancing the budget was the head librarian’s job, one that Evelyn always guarded as fiercely as a dragon protected its hoard. Asking a fellow librarian to take a look was even more out of character than her leaving her office door open. 

Maybe she just wasn’t feeling well, Belle reasoned. She’d been looking a bit tired lately. 

“Sure, I’ll look through it this evening,” she agreed. Wednesday nights were always slow at the library. Apart from Lachlan’s usual visit, all she had to look forward to was an evening of boredom.

Evelyn closed the binder and handed it to Belle. “I can always count on you to do what’s best for the library,” she commented. Glancing at her watch with a grimace, she pushed her chair out from her desk. “Well, it’s time for me to drag these old bones home for the night. Don’t let your young man distract you too much,” she added with a wink.

Belle rolled her eyes. “Judging by the stories you’ve told me about your husband, you two could’ve given me and Lachlan a run for our money.”

Evelyn left with a mischievous smirk. Left alone with little to do until Lachlan showed up, she went through the budget with a fine-toothed comb. 

She was so focused on the task that she didn’t even notice him approach an hour later until he reached out, wrapping a curl around his finger and tugging gently. “All right, Beautiful?”

She looked up, startled. “Oh! Lachlan, I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“I figured,” he said. “You seemed engrossed in… whatever it is you’re working on.”

“It’s the library’s annual budget,” she said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear absentmindedly. “My boss asked me to look over the numbers. And… I think… yes! It looks like there’s a discrepancy.”

“What is it?” he asked. “Or is it one of those ‘I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you’ things?”

“I’ve got connections; I’m sure I can talk them down to a light maiming if you stay on my good side,” she retorted with a smirk. “No, but… look at this.” She flipped the binder so he could see it, pointing at a few line items. “Under the staffing budget. Look - there’s money for the head librarian and  _ three _ other full-time librarians.”

Lachlan’s brows lowered in a confused frown. “So?”

“So there are five librarians total. There’s Evelyn, the head. And then there’s me, Craig, Tammy and Will.” She chewed anxiously on her lower lip. “So either Evelyn messed up the budget, which she doesn’t usually do… or someone is getting laid off.”

“Shit.” 

“Yeah.”

“But your job is secure, right?” he asked. “I mean, they can’t just close the library at night. People return books after work, right?”

“I really don’t know,” she admitted. “I mean… Evelyn and I have been getting friendly ever since I started helping her with some of her more unpleasant tasks. But I also have the least seniority out of everyone who works here. So if anyone’s under the axe, it’s probably going to be me.” She shrugged helplessly. 

“It’s probably just a mistake,” Lachlan assured her. “I have a hard time believing your boss is stupid enough to ask you to look something over that proves you’re about to lose your job.”

“True.”

Lachlan made a good point. Evelyn was an intelligent woman. Even at her advanced age, her mind was sharp as a whip. And while she was a stringent enforcer of the library’s rules, she wasn't cruel enough to taunt someone in that way. It had to be some sort of a mistake.

But what if it wasn’t? If Belle really was going to be laid off… Even if she worked full time at the diner, there was no way she could afford her flat on just a waitress’s pay. Especially with business being as slow as it was. She’d have to find  _ another _ job. Librarians weren’t in high demand in Glasgow - or anywhere, as far as she could tell. Her love for her job at the library was one of the few things that kept her going on the bad days. If she had to work two jobs she couldn’t stand, on top of taking care of Lacey, she’d probably have a breakdown before the year was out.

Belle swallowed down the panic rising in her stomach. It was probably just a mistake or misunderstanding. There was no need to work herself into a lather over something that may or may not come to pass. If the worst happened and she did lose her job, she would handle it, just as she handled everything else. Yes. Deep breaths.

Once her racing heart had slowed somewhat, she closed the binder and stowed it under the circulation desk, regarding Lachlan with a grin. “So we’re still on for Sunday, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And are you going to give me  _ any _ hints about what we’re doing?”

He graced her with a sly, secretive grin. “Now what would be the fun in that?” he asked.

“You’d have a happy girlfriend,” she wheedled. 

“If I don’t already have that, then I’m doing something wrong,” he retorted.

Damn. He had her there. “Fine,” she sighed with a mock pout. “But can you at least tell me what I should wear?”

He eyed her consideringly. “Come here,” he said with a flick of his head, taking her hand and walking her out from behind the circulation desk. His eyes took her in from head to toe, lingering for a long time over the length of her legs left bare by her short skirt. “Jeans,” he said decisively. “None of that acid washed crap. A good, sturdy pair of jeans, and comfortable walking shoes. Boots would be best, but trainers work, too. And…” He sifted his hand through her long, chestnut curls. Belle shivered at his touch. Her hair seemed to have a life of its own, one curl snagging his finger. He extricated himself gingerly, careful not to tug roughly on her hair. “...tie your hair back in a loose braid,” he finished.

With a speculative purse of her lips, she considered his words. So wherever they were going would involve a lot of walking. Her hair needed to be out of the way for  _ some _ reason, and she couldn’t even begin to guess why he wanted her to wear jeans. If they were doing something active, leggings would be better. And she’d seen the way his gaze was riveted to her legs more often than not. He  _ liked _ seeing her in skirts or leggings. So if he was specifically asking her to wear jeans, he must have a good reason.

It was no good. He hadn’t given her enough of a hint to begin to guess. And if the self-satisfied smirk curling of his mouth was any indication, he knew exactly the direction her thoughts had taken. Draping her arms over his shoulders and winding her fingers through the ends of his hair, she nudged his nose with hers.

“Can’t you give me one more hint?” Snaking his arms around her waist, Lachlan leaned forward, seeking her mouth. She let her lips ghost over his, never allowing him quite close enough to deepen the contact. She grinned at the frustrated sound he made.. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

He sighed, his warm breath puffing over her face. “I suppose I could,” he allowed, humming contentedly into her mouth when she rewarded him with a kiss. His lips under hers were still twisted in that smug little grin. She pulled back, her nose wrinkling in suspicion. “But I won’t.”

“Ugh!” She gave his shoulders a playful shove. Since his arms were still securely wrapped around her middle, he remained anchored to her. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it. And even if you don’t, you still have to wait ‘til Sunday.”

With a haughty sniff, she stepped out of his embrace. His hands trailed over her blouse as he reluctantly let her go. “Fine,” she conceded with a theatrical sigh. She grabbed the handle of the return cart and started pushing it towards the bookcases. “I suppose I’ll endeavor to be patient. Now come on. I’ve got books to shelve and surfaces to dust. If you’re not going to give me a hint, you can at least keep me company.”

******

“Alright, everybody, good meeting. I’ll see you all same time next week.” Angus collected the coffee can with the donations as most of the members of the alcohol support group shuffled out of their chairs and toward the door. Soon, only he and Lachlan remained.

Since his first meeting a week and a half ago, Lachlan had found the courage to join the ring of chairs at the center of the room, rather than keeping himself separate in the chair left by the room’s only door. The day he’d done so, the rest of the members had welcomed him to the circle like an old friend, greeting him with familiar warmth without prying into his circumstances.

He still hadn’t been able to bring himself to speak at the meetings. It was one thing to admit to these people that he had a problem. Baring his soul to them was another story.

Still, his attendance wasn’t for nothing. Hearing the struggles of different people, all from different walks of life, made him realize that his difficulties with addiction weren’t a personal failing unique to him. Objectively, he  _ knew _ that; he’d been to alcohol rehab and AA meetings before. But something about this group’s core tenet of personal responsibility resonated with Lachlan. If a doctor, a loving parent, and a fellow manual laborer could all own their part in their addiction, and come out the better for it, then there was no reason he couldn’t, as well.

He was also learning some ways of coping with sobriety, as well as the cravings and emotional rawness that came with it. For instance, he’d started keeping a bottle of water with him at all times. He’d become so used to drinking his emotions away over the years that it had nearly become a reflex. Taking a swallow of water when he was feeling overwhelmed helped to curb the impulse. Granted, it was rather like satisfying a craving for triple chocolate cake by eating a Tootsie Roll, but it was better than nothing.

He still couldn’t bring himself to recite the affirmations Angus had provided on a printout. Standing in front of the mirror and saying things like, “I will be a better me,” or “I am proud of myself” just made him feel like an arse.

Some of the affirmations he couldn’t even bring himself to think about yet. Trying to say them while staring his reflection in the eye had been agony.

Angus poured two cups of shitty coffee from the stainless steel carafe, handing one to Lachlan. Both of them took a ginger sip with a poorly suppressed wince. Lachlan could appreciate the need for decaf, especially in his current emotional state, but he’d kill for a cup of actual decent coffee.

This had become something of a ritual between the two men every Tuesday and Thursday. Once the meeting ended, they’d spend fifteen minutes or so shooting the shit. They never touched on any sensitive topics; their conversations rarely strayed from music, football, or work. Lachlan wasn’t stupid; he knew that Angus was trying to set him at ease, hoping that one of these days Lachlan would open up about his story to the group. And maybe one of these days, he would. 

On Tuesday, though, he’d made an offhand comment about the surprise he was planning for Belle this Sunday. To his surprise, when he’d heard of Lachlan’s rather expensive plans, Angus had made a generous offer, which Lachlan was helpless to refuse. Which led to their current topic of conversation.

“So,” Angus said, dangling his keys between his thumb and forefinger with a jingle. “You said you’re a bit rusty. How long’s it been since you’ve ridden?”

Lachlan racked his brain. He’d still had his ride after Arianwen was born; it wasn’t until after the divorce that he’d traded it in for an easier mode of transportation. “Ten years, give or take,” he admitted.

“Well, if there’s one thing I’ve found, it’s that once you get back in the swing of it, it’s like you never left.” He jerked his head toward the door. “So come on. I’ll set up some traffic cones in the parking lot so you can practice.”

“Alright.” As the two men packed up and headed outside, Lachlan spoke up. “Are you  _ sure _ you don’t mind? Like I said, I’m out of practice. If something happens to it…”

Angus waved him off. “Nah, it’s fine. I’m about to see your skills for myself. If you’re a decent rider, then I’m not too worried about you getting into an accident. Bedies,” he added, “if you damage it, I’ll just sue you for some of that sweet Bank Street Waltz money.”

Lachlan snorted out a laugh. “If you think you’ll get rich off of that, you’ll be sorely disappointed,” he said. “I pissed all of that money away years ago.”

“Ah well. It was worth a shot.” With an easy grin, he tossed the keys to Lachlan. “So c’mon, Bob McIntyre. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Lachlan eyed his new friend askance. “Could you maybe  _ not  _ compare me to aracer who died of head injuries after a race?” he suggested. “You’re just asking me to get into an accident.”

“Aah, you’ll be fine. Now hop on.”

******

Sunday morning found Belle standing outside her apartment building, dressed as Lachlan had requested in jeans, a nice blouse, and a pair of barely-used hiking boots. The sun peeked out from the low clouds obscuring the blue sky, seemingly undecided on whether it wanted to shine in earnest. Whatever Lachlan had planned, she hoped the weather would hold up.

Her foot tapped impatiently as she waited for him. He’d texted her five minutes to tell her he was on his way, asking her to meet him outside. He must not want to risk another run-in with Lacey. She couldn’t blame him, but the precaution was unnecessary. She hadn’t seen her sister once in the past week. Relief warred with worry in her chest. Lavey had never stayed away from the flat for so long before. The quiet was more than welcome, but thoughts of Lacey getting hurt because of her drinking filled Belle with sick dread.

The roar of a motorcycle pulled her from her troubled thoughts. Her lips spread in a dreamy smile. She’d always wondered how wonderful it must feel on the back of one, how free. The wind in her face, the roar of the engine… it sounded positively exhilarating. As a teenager, the idea of that small rebellion, the possibility of just picking oneself up and  _ going _ , had appealed to her so much that she’d pasted several pictures of motorcycles into her adventure book.

She’d heard a few of them in the distance today, but none so close as this one. As the bike rounded the corner onto her street, her eyes were drawn to the figure astride the machine. Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, his head was protected by a full-coverage helmet. The sun reflecting off of the glass face shield blocked her view of the rider’s eyes. 

To her surprise, the bike pulled over in front of her, the roaring engine cutting out. The figure on the bike, clearly a man, turned his head toward her, his face still obscured by his helmet. Belle took an uncertain step back, her hand holding her keys in a white-knuckled grip. She wasn’t the type to make a snap judgment about a person, but this was still a stranger approaching her on the street.

The figure seemed to hesitate, then, before his hands went to his face shield and lifted it. Familiar warm brown eyes crinkled behind the helmet. “Hey, beautiful.” Lachlan’s voice was muffled behind his helmet.

With a harsh sigh of relief, Belle slapped his arm. With the thick leather of his jacket, he probably hardly felt it. “Don’t scare me like that!” she cried with a halfhearted scowl. “I didn’t know it was you.”

He chuckled at that. “I figured.” Leaning the bike on its kickstand, he dismounted. 

Belle’s eyes darted between him and the motorcycle. “Where did you get this, anyway?” she asked.

“I told a friend from my support group about my plans for today,” he explained without taking his helmet off. “I was planning to rent a bike and buy protective gear, but he offered to loan me some, instead.”

She gaped at him. “Lachlan, that would’ve come out to… what, a couple hundred pounds? I couldn’t let you spend that much!”

“And I didn’t,” he retorted. “Angus loaned me everything we need. Besides,” he added, “on our first date, you promised you’d let me take you out and pay, without complaining.”

“ _ Minimal _ complaining,” she corrected. “I said minimal complaining.” 

She chewed anxiously on her lower lip. When she’d made that offer, she’d expected him to take her out to dinner or something, at most. But this… he’d been ready to put himself through a lot of trouble and expense. And for what? To let her live out a fantasy from a silly little scrapbook she’d made when she was a teen? That wasn’t worth the trouble. The idea of him putting himself out so much for her made her stomach churn with unease.

If Lachlan noticed her disquiet, he gave no indication. He pulled a jacket made of some sort of canvas material from behind him, holding it open so she could slip her arms into the sleeves. The thick material didn’t breathe well, and the shoulders and elbows had some sort of plastic armor plating sewn into the lining. At Lachlan’s direction, she found leather gloves in the pockets and put them on. Finally, he showed her how to put the spare helmet on correctly, giving it an experimental wiggle to make sure it was on securely. 

That done, he threw one leg back over the bike, straddling it easily before patting the leather seat behind him. “Hop on!”

That was easier said than done. If she’d been wearing heels, she might have been  _ just _ tall enough to get her leg over the back end and down the other side. But in flat boots, she was simply too short. After a few failed attempts, she backed up with a frown. Lachlan, it seemed, found her struggle hilarious; he was generous enough to keep his laughter silent, but his shaking shoulders and dancing eyes gave him away. She scowled at him, which accomplished nothing except to make him laugh even harder. Finally she managed to clamber over the back by bracing one hand on his shoulder for leverage.

Once she was settled in behind him with her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, he nodded. “Let’s take a few turns around the neighborhood to start. Sound good?” At her nod, he continued. “Now, when we take turns, your instinct is going to be to lean against the turn.  _ Don’t do that. _ It’ll throw our balance off.”

“So what should I do?” she asked.

“Just… sort of… I dunno, try and keep your upper body steady, and let your lower body move with the bike,” he advised. “We’ll practice, eh?” He straightened the bike, pushing the kickstand out of the way. “Ready?”

Nervous was more like it. As often as she’d daydreamed about a moment just like this, the reality was a bit daunting. Being outfitted in protective gear made her painfully aware of just how easily something could go horribly wrong. Her stomach was full of butterflies, her heart beating just a bit faster than usual.

But this was an adventure, she reminded herself. All her life she’d dreamed of going on adventures: seeing new places, experiencing new things. Life had always managed to get in the way, so here she was - thirty years old and about to embark on her very first. She just had to take a chance. Courage surely wouldn’t be far behind.

“Ready,” she said, tightening her grip around Lachlan’s waist.

The engine roared to life beneath them, the power thrumming between her thighs in a way that made her heart leap with excitement. With a sudden burst of speed and an exhilarated squeal from Belle, they were off. Their surroundings seemed to rush by twice as fast as they did in the car, though they weren’t going above the speed limit. The first turn they took was a bit wobbly as Belle fought her instinct to compensate by leaning left while the bike turned right. After about five minutes, she was able to relax her hold around Lachlan’s waist a little. After ten, they figured out the intricacies of turning with two people on the bike well enough to handle each one with ease. Finally, just when she was finally getting comfortable on the bike, Lachlan pulled over. Her previous apprehension gone, Belle pushed away the feeling of disappointment at their adventure being over so soon.

“Ready to get going?” he called over his shoulder without turning the engine off.

She frowned. “Going? Where?”

“It’s a surprise,” he replied. “You didn’t think this was all I had planned for today, did you?”

Actually, she rather had. It was already a bit overwhelming that Lachlan had taken her silly little dreams seriously enough to set this up for her. For there to be more in store for her hardly bore thinking about.

Before she knew it, they were off again and exiting Glasgow’s city limits. No matter how many times Belle asked, Lachlan was frustratingly tight-lipped about their destination, so she eventually stopped asking. Instead she let herself enjoy the rolling green hills of the Scottish countryside. She’d driven through them once or twice in the six years since she’d come to Glasgow, but being behind the wheel had kept her from being able to focus on the beauty of the surrounding landscape. With Lachlan behind the wheel - or rather, the handlebars - she was free to simply let go and allow herself to savor this new experience. Zipping through the countryside with Lachlan in her arms and the powerful thrum of the engine between her legs, she felt like she could take on the world.

For about thirty minutes, Belle didn’t have so much as a hint of where they were going. She was perfectly content to soak in their peaceful surroundings. The wind buffeted them as they sped down the pavement, making Belle’s braid whip out behind her. With all the protective gear she was wearing, she hardly felt its chill. If anything, she was growing warm with the sun shining down and the heat of the engine radiating from below. Every so often when they hit a straight patch of road, Lachlan would let one hand venture briefly from the handlebar to find her arms where they wrapped around his middle, giving her hands a reassuring squeeze.

Eventually, she started noticing signs pointing them toward Stirling - a place she’d been dying to visit since the moment she’d set down roots in Glasgow. But even though the smaller city was only thirty minutes away, there had always been a reason not to go. She had work, or needed to take care of Lacey, or had cooking and cleaning to catch up on. In the face of her responsibilities, it seemed selfish to take a day off to do something so frivolous. 

But Lachlan didn’t seem to think so. He’d seen the pictures in her scrapbook. He knew of her need to escape, to immerse herself in new experiences, and he’d endeavored to make it happen. As the silhouette of Stirling Castle loomed promising and large on the horizon, she trembled with excitement.

Lachlan didn’t take his eyes off the road, but he patted her hands where they rested on his stomach. “Excited?” he called over the loudness of the engine. That had to be the one drawback to riding instead of driving: it was difficult to talk.

“Yes!” she cried with a gleeful laugh. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you did all this!” He laughed, and said something she didn’t quite catch. “What was that?”

“Nothing! Don’t worry about it.” As they rode through the markets on the outskirts of the city, Belle hugged him a little tighter, resting her helmeted head on his shoulder. “So, you’re the expert on all the must-see attractions Stirling has to offer,” he said. “Where to first?”

******

Hours later, as Belle and Lachlan finished climbing the two hundred and fifty (give or take - Belle probably knew the exact number, knowing her) steps of the National Wallace Monument, they both took a moment to catch their breath. Even with breaks to wander the exhibits housed in the old stone tower, Lachlan’s legs burned with the effort. But the moment his gaze fell on Belle’s beautiful face, he decided he’d happily climb them again if it would keep that enchanted smile of hers just as it was.

From the moment they’d dismounted the bike - Belle sliding gracelessly off the back and pouting at his smothered sniggering - she’d come alive as he’d never seen her before. She’d had to stifle some giggles of her own when she looked at him, seeing what he could only assume was a ridiculous case of helmet hair. He’d endured her efforts to fluff his hair into some semblance of order with good-natured grumbling, and then they were off, Belle dragging him by the hand to take in as many sights as they could squeeze into a single day. With all the money he’d saved on a bike rental, Lachlan had considered booking them a spot in a guided tour. That proved unnecessary; it seemed that Belle had spent a fair part of her time in Scotland boning up on its history. She tugged him this way and that, pointing out this bit of Renaissance architecture or that historical relic, knowing the story behind each and every one. They’d strolled down the Old Town before popping into a cafe for a quick lunch. Then it was out again to make the trek up to Stirling Castle and wander its halls. Once the sun started its descent toward the horizon, Belle had made her way resolutely toward the Monument, determined to take in the view from its crown while there was still light enough to see.

As they stepped out onto the landing with its century-and-a-half old stonework, the light from the setting sun set Belle’s chestnut curls aflame, bringing out highlights of bronze and auburn. Her gaze roamed eagerly over the rolling hills and forests. Her crystal blue eyes sparkled in the twin lights of the setting sun and her own happiness. Lachlan’s breath caught in his throat. God, he would crawl on his hands and knees through the broken glass of every bottle of whisky or beer he’d ever drank, just to always be the man who put that look on her face. He was so in love with her that the blood thrummed through his veins with it, his heart so full it could burst.

The thought wasn’t even a revelation to him. The L-word had been skirting the edges of his mind since the weekend she’d eased him through the detox and all the past bullshit it had dredged up. He’d pushed the thought away. Any man might think the same if a gorgeous, kind woman like Belle nursed him back to health before indulging in earth-shattering sex. But the feeling hadn’t faded in the following weeks. If anything, they’d only gotten stronger, even when she lashed out at him in her grief over her broken family. That rawness - the pain, the rage, the guilt - was a familiar one. Maybe he didn’t have the healthiest ways of coping with it, but he could at least offer her understanding.

He’d known, from the moment that she’d practically pushed her way into his flat, that he needed her. But he hadn’t counted on just how  _ right _ it could feel to be needed in return.

“Hey.” She turned the full wattage of her smile on him, and he was helpless to resist doing the same. “I want a picture.”

Following her out to the old stone railing, he wrapped an arm around her waist, tugging her tight to his side. She positioned them carefully so that the setting sun lit them from behind without casting their faces in shadow. Looking at the screen, Lachlan noted with a wince that the same light that cast Belle’s hair in such striking hues also managed to pick out every last one of his grays.

He pushed the thought away ruthlessly. Belle had managed to look past his alcoholism, his temper, and his past. Compared to those things, age was just a number. Though it did beg the question: with so many things to look past, just what did she see in him?

No. Now wasn’t the time for thoughts like that. Not when Belle was turning in his arms, eyes shining and lips parted so invitingly. He nibbled at them with his own while she looped her arms around her neck and twined her fingers in the shaggy ends of his hair.

They kissed until the sun had disappeared beyond the rim of the horizon, the waning light just beginning to fade. Finally, Belle ended the kiss, touching her forehead to his. The blue of her eyes eclipsed everything else in his view.

“Thank you for today,” she murmured. “You went through so much trouble, all for me. It just… it was…”

She seemed to be struggling with the words, so he cut in to spare her. “You’re worth all of it and more,” he told her. She let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Determined to keep things light - there had been far too many tears these past few weeks - he changed the subject. “Why don’t we grab a bite before we head home. What are you hungry for?”

“You,” she said with a coy grin. “But since that’s probably not an option just now, I could really go for a hamburger.”

Oh, thank God. He’d half-wondered if she’d ask for something more upscale, and he sure as hell wasn’t dressed for that. Come to think of it, neither was she. “Come on, then,” he said. “I saw a pub down the street that probably serves burgers. Then, if you want, we can head back to my place.”

Going down the two hundred some-odd steps was easier than going up them. A quick walk had them entering a nearby pub. Lachlan immediately realized his mistake. On a Sunday evening, most of the place’s customers were there for booze, not food. The smells of beer and hard liquor assailed his nose, making his knees nearly buckle with  _ want. _

Belle picked up on the problem right away. Her hand wrapped around his upper arm. “Come on,” she said urgently. “We can go somewhere else.”

“No, no.” Today had been damn near perfect - the sort of date Belle deserved to be taken on. He’d be damned if he’d let his addiction ruin it. “We can stay. I’ll be fine.”

And it was true, he realized. Had he been here alone, he might not have the strength to resist the call of the drink when it was so close. But with Belle at his side he had a reason to fight the temptation.

She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could get a word out, a waitress approached. “Welcome,” she greeted them with a blank customer service smile. “Booth or bar?”

"Booth.”

The waitress showed them to a free booth, dropping off two laminated food menus and a drink menu. As soon as the waitress was gone, Belle matter-of-factly plucked the drink menu off the table, tucking it on the seat next to her without a word. He gave her a grateful smile, which she returned with an affectionate one of her own.

In minutes they put in their order for two cheeseburgers - hers with fries, his with onion rings. While they waited for the food to come out, Lachlan grappled with the urge to order a drink. There was no way in hell he was going to give in. Not in front of Belle. Especially when he still had to get them home. But damn if he didn’t want one.

_ I am more than my addiction, _ he reminded himself, using one of the affirmations the support group taught him.  _ I am more than my addiction. I am more than my addiction. _

The worst of the urge eventually passed. When he opened his eyes, he realized that Belle had laid her hand over his, a concerned look on her face. 

“I’m okay,” he said. 

Her blue eyes searched his, her brow furrowed with worry. She must have seen something in his face to reassure her, because she eventually relaxed.

“Okay,” she said. “But if you need to leave at any time--”

“I’ll let you know,” he interrupted. Not wanting to dwell on his own shortcomings, he eagerly changed the subject. “So tell me: what was your favorite part about today?”

“Honestly? You.” Her fingers entwined with his, and she gifted him with a brilliant smile that sent his heart thudding in his chest.

“Me?”

She nodded. “I’d honestly given up on ever doing anything from my book years ago. I feel like… I don’t know, like I lost the part of me that wanted those things. Travel. Adventure. Learning new things. I’ve spent so long just trying to keep my family together that I just sort of… forget about me.” She swallowed and blinked rapidly against the tears in her eyes. Lachlan rubbed small circles on her hand with his thumb. “But you’re the first person who - who puts me first. Maybe ever. And… and…” Tears spilled over her cheeks then. She scrubbed them away impatiently with her free hand. When she spoke again, her voice was thick and shaky. “And you surprise me with… all this, just to make my dreams come true, and it’s…  _ infinitely _ better than I ever imagined, because you’re here with me.”

Lachlan bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something rash and corny. Something like, “I’ll always put you first.” Or, “I want to make all your dreams come true.” Or the simplest, truest thing he could think of: “I love you.” The words sat at the back of his throat, nearly choking him as he held them back.

But damn it, it was  _ too soon _ . They’d hardly been dating for any time at all. Hell, it’d taken him a full year to tell Catherine he loved her. Besides, just because he loved Belle didn’t mean that she was ready to return his feelings. He wasn’t going to ruin the best thing he had going for him in Glasgow by rushing her into something she wasn’t ready for. She’d told him a week ago that she was smitten with him. It was enough. It had to be enough.

Their food arrived shortly after that. They both dug in. The burgers provided a good distraction from Lachlan’s alcohol cravings, and soon they’d been banished utterly. For the time being, at least. When he snagged a fry off of Belle’s plate, she gasped in mock affront. He was able to mollify her by popping an onion ring in her mouth, and soon they were picking food off of each other’s plates.

Once their plates were cleared, the waitress came by to drop off the check. Being a librarian must have given Belle some sort of supernatural ability to snap up a piece of paper with superhuman speed; just like on their first date, she managed to grab the check before he could get so much as a finger on it.

“I went all day without complaining about you paying,” she insisted. “ _ And _ driving.  _ And _ planning a whole day around me. You’ve spoiled me plenty. This is my treat.”

As far as he was concerned, she deserved to be spoiled a hell of a lot more than this. But he recognized a losing battle when he saw one. “Fine,” he sighed.

Once she settled their bill, they put their jackets back on and stepped outside, starting the slow walk back to the bike. Before he could mount it, Belle grabbed his sleeve. “Lachlan?”

“Hmm?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Belle wrapped her arms around his shoulders, resting her head on his shoulder. “I just wanted to say I’m really proud of you.”

A painful lump formed in his throat. “For what?” he asked hoarsely.

“I know being in that pub wasn’t easy for you.” she said, her soft murmur puffing warm air in his ear. “It took so much strength to put yourself in that situation.”

He swallowed, fighting against the stinging ache in his eyes. If he hadn’t gone and gotten himself addicted in the first place, going to a pub would have been entirely unremarkable. “It doesn’t feel like strength,” he admitted in a harsh whisper.

“But it is,” she insisted, pushing back to arm's length so she could look him in the eyes. “It takes so much strength and courage to overcome an illness. Any illness.” She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say more, closed it, and paused consideringly. Finally she spoke again. “You’re a wonderful, caring man who lost his way for a while. And I… love… seeing you become the man you want to be.”

There was an aching  _ crack  _ somewhere deep in his chest. Needing her close, he tugged her flush against him and slanted his lips over hers. Her fingers in his hair, the sweet sighs she breathed into his mouth, the silk of her skin under his fingertips - they were all a balm for the raw emotion battering him. 

Eventually their kisses tapered off. He nudged her nose affectionately with his, just barely resisting the temptation to lose himself in her lips again.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered.

Unable to speak, he nodded mutely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said: I'm basic. Putting an attractive man on a motorcycle ups the hotness factor EXPONENTIALLY.
> 
> I decided that these two crazy kids deserved a (relatively) angst-free chapter. I've put them through the emotional wringer a bit, and I'm not done with them, but they deserved a good week.


	17. Those Days Are Gone Now, Changed Like a Leaf on a Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Hope you enjoyed last chapter's fluffy date. Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming. Sort of. I tried moving on to the next leg of the story, and quickly realized that I'd fallen into the pitfall of writing third person limited POV without giving one side of a conflict any POV time. This chapter is my attempt to rectify that.

_ December, 2002 - Christmas Day _

The scorching summer sun shone high overhead, beating down on the beach’s smooth, white sands. It sparkled off of the water’s waves, the glare reflecting right into Belle’s eyes as she struggled to focus on her book. She repositioned herself under the shade of the enormous, floral-printed umbrella, keeping her fair skin safe from sunburn.

Unlike her, Lacey revelled in the sun’s warming rays. The second they’d arrived at the beach after opening Christmas presents, Lacey had bounded for the waves, splashing playfully among them while Mum set up the beach towels and Dad set up the barbecue. Now she sat with her legs splayed in the sand, carefully sculpting a sea turtle in the sand. It frolicked with the octopus and dolphin she’d already shaped from the rapidly drying mud.

Several feet away, Dad was barbecuing prawns in his traditional Christmas outfit: board shorts, a bright red button-up covered with enormous snowflakes, and a fake Santa beard that had to be unbearably hot in the Australian summer heat, judging by his reddened, sweaty face. Nearby, Mum had spread out a large blanket and was opening plastic containers filled with cold foods that would be refreshing in the December sun. 

“Why don’t you slow down on those beers, dear?” Mum suggested, her brown eyes focusing on Dad while her hands automatically arranged mini mince pies on a platter. “That’s your fourth one and we’ve hardly been here an hour.”

“Ah, ease off, Col,” Dad said jovially. “It’s Christmas! Besides, it’s hot as hell out. Gotta keep cool somehow, right?”

“Have a soda,” Mum nagged. “Or go for a swim. The water feels great.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Dad took another swig from his beer, flipping the prawns with his large metal tongs. They sizzled loudly over the charcoal flames, and the mouth-watering smell of grilled seafood blended with the salty scent of the sea.

Mum’s voice dropped lower, almost too low for Belle to hear over the susurration of the waves. “Moe, you know I don’t like you drinking so much in front of the girls,” she said quietly.

Without looking up from her book, Belle chimed in. “Come on, Mum, it’s Christmas,” she said, echoing Dad. 

“Yeah, and he’s hilarious when he’s had a few,” Lacey added as she put the finishing touches on her sand turtle. “Remember what happened last year, with the skateboard?”

“I try not to,” Mum said tartly, her lips pressed in a thin line.

Dad looked consideringly at his half-empty beer, glancing between it and his wife. Coming to a decision, he poured the remainder out onto the sand. “You’re right, dear,” he said. “Hand me a soda, won’t you?”

With a sigh, Mum dusted some sand from her hands before fetching a drink for her husband from the cooler. Condensation beaded on the outside of the bottle, dripping slowly down and falling onto the hot white sand.

“Hey Sissy,” Lacey called, using her childhood nickname for Belle, “c’mere. I want to give you a mermaid tail.” She already had a shallow hole dug for Belle to settle into while Lacey sculpted the sand over her legs.

Tucking a finger in her book to mark her place, Belle eyed her sister where she was sprawled out in the sun. She should spend some time with her twin, but she’d just gotten to a  _ really _ good part in her book. “I don’t want to leave the umbrella. I’ll burn,” she said, knowing the excuse was weak even as it left her mouth.

And as always, Lacey could tell exactly when Belle was making excuses. “You’re wearing the exact same SPF One Million sunblock I am,” she said with an affectionate roll of her eyes. “If I haven’t burned yet, you won’t either.”

Darn. Lacey had a way of calling Belle out, dragging her out to be more social when all she wanted was to spend her time with her nose stuck in a book. It would be easier to just give in and let Lacey have her way. Besides, she did like it when Lacey involved her in her art in some way. She’s always been quietly envious of her younger twin’s artistic talents. Sure, Belle had book smarts, but nobody was impressed with that. Full marks on a test didn’t get the same acclaim that her sister’s gorgeous paintings did. But when Lacey got Belle involved, Belle felt like she could pretend that she had a part in making something beautiful, however small that part was.

Tucking her bookmark in place, she left her book on the oversized beach towel, stepping gingerly over the scorching hot sands. “Alright, Lace,” she said, “where do you want me?”

******

_ Late February, 2003 _

The service was beautiful, but the flowers weren’t.

Belle’s parents had a keen eye for the freshness of their flowers; if a petal showed so much as a brown edge or a hint of drooping, it had no place in a  _ Game of Thorns _ floral arrangement. Each sprig and leaf was carefully selected and painstakingly arranged. Bouquets, nosegays, corsages, wreaths - anything that came from  _ Game of Thorns _ was guaranteed quality.

The flowers at Mum’s funeral… weren’t. They wilted and drooped sadly, as if they mourned Collette French’s passing just as much as her family did. Nobody who remained of the French family had been able to bear the thought of crafting floral arrangements for Collette’s funeral, so Belle had reluctantly called a chain florist to handle it. The delivery driver had dropped off the arrangements with about as much care as he’d take dropping a bag of trash in the bin, jostling petals loose with each careless bump. Worst of all, they were loaded with Oriental lilies - the  _ one _ flower Belle had specifically asked the apathetic woman on the phone  _ not _ to include. Anybody who knew Mum at all knew that the potent scent of Oriental lilies gave her horrible headaches. They didn’t belong at her funeral.

Belle knew that she was being petty. And honesty? She didn’t care. The flowers were  _ awful _ . Mum and Dad could have made better arrangements in their sleep. Belle herself could do better with her left hand (and half her attention) occupied with a book, and Lacey’s artistic flair had made absolutely breathtaking sculptures of petals, greenery and ribbons.

But Mum was gone, lying in that closed casket. Dad was slumped in the pew next to his daughters, the sickly stench of stale beer thick on his breath and even his sweat. He’d been like this nearly every day since… since that day, less than a week ago. Lacey had gone sullen and quiet, only leaving her room to use the bathroom. Belle had had to shove her sister into the bathroom and coax her into showering and dressing for the funeral.

And Belle… Belle was doing her best to hold everything together. That was only fair. She’d been the one to tear the family apart, so it made sense that she had to be the one to hold together what was left. If that meant putting on a brave smile while she arranged a funeral and made sure that Dad and Lacey ate when all she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sob, well, that was the price she had to pay. Tears would have to wait.

This wasn’t for forever. She just had to hold on until Dad and Lacey were themselves again. She could be strong until then.

After all, how long could that possibly take?

******

_ Late September, 2003 _

Belle stepped into her and Lacey’s shared bedroom, her nose wrinkling at the smell of stale, unwashed sweat coming from Lacey’s side. Their respective sides of the room couldn’t be more different. Where Belle’s clothes were folded and put away, Lacey’s languished unfolded in a laundry basket. Belle’s walls were unadorned, obscured by several tall bookcases packed to bursting with every novel she’d ever read. By contrast, Lacey had very few books; her walls were covered from floor to ceiling in her artwork in any medium that caught her fancy. She painted with watercolors, with acrylics, and even with spraypaint and stencils. There were pencil sketches, charcoal drawings, pastel illustrations. One or two collages were tucked in among the myriad pictures, and the top of her dresser was cluttered with sculptures in every material from clay to wood to paper clips to what Belle would only describe as trash.

Belle’s bed was neatly made. Lacey’s wasn’t. It was hard to make the bed when Lacey had barely left it in six months.

Carrying the tray with Lacey’s dinner on it to the bedside, she laid it on her sister’s nightstand and perched on the edge of the bed. Hopefully tonight she could convince her sister to eat something. More often than not, Lacey would turn away any food Belle coaxed her with, rolling over to face the wall without a word.

Belle was nearing the end of her rope. Between Dad’s drinking and Lacey’s complete shutdown, there was nobody else to keep the household running. Somebody had to make sure that Dad got something other than beer in his stomach, and that Lacey got anything at all in hers. Someone had to keep the house clean and the fridge stocked. Belle was doing a terrible job of it; Mum would have done better. But Mum wasn’t here, and there was nobody else.

A thought occurred to Belle, then. Mum would have done better. Maybe the key to handling Lacey was to act more like Mum. It couldn’t hurt to try.

Belle brushed her fingers through Lacey’s oily hair just the way Mum used to when either of the twins was sick, doing her best to imitate their mother’s words and soothing tone. “Sweetie, do you think you can try eating something for me?” she cooed.

Her sister peeked out from under her blankets, her hair a snarled mass of curls. “Mum?” she whimpered, looking around in confusion. Her eyes landed on Belle, and she curled in on herself. “Sissy? Why are you--”

Belle cut her sister off with gentle shushing noises. If Lacey questioned what Belle was doing, it wouldn’t work. “I need you to take five big bites for me,” she said, continuing to brush the hair out of Lacey’s eyes. “Five big bites, and then you can rest. You need your strength for when school starts up next week.”

Her younger twin huffed. “I‘m not going back,” she mumbled. “Don’t wanna be the girl with the dead mum.”

Belle sighed. She knew exactly what Lacey was talking about. For the first two months after Mum’s death, the entire school had treated both of them like fragile porcelain dolls. Teachers excused them from turning in homework, classmates stared at them like they were some sort of zoo animal, and they’d been forced to go to sessions with the school counselor. A week of such treatment had sent Lacey into sobbing rages, which had culminated in her inability to leave bed since mid-March.

“They won’t treat you like that,” Belle insisted, still using her most soothing voice. “They stopped treating me like that months ago.”

“Don’t care. Not going.”

For a brief moment, Belle felt utterly helpless. She was just a kid. How was she supposed to take care of Dad and Lacey when neither of them wanted her to take care of them? Lacey refused to go to school, and had barely moved all summer - not even to visit friends. And Dad had twigged onto the fact that Belle was stealing money from the safe in the flower shop, using it to buy food and necessities before he could drink it all away. She’d snuck into the shop when he wasn’t looking yesterday, and had realized with an unpleasant shock that he’d changed the combination to the lock. 

She was only thirteen. How was she supposed to hold a family together that seemed to want nothing more than to fall apart?

She shook her head to clear it of those hopeless thoughts. This was her  _ job. _ She had to keep going. It wouldn’t be for too much longer. Any day now, Lacey and Dad would pull through their grief, and then Belle could finally rest.

Right. Time to try a different tactic. “Lacey Rose French!” Belle barked, adopting Mum’s ‘you’re in big trouble’ voice. Lacey sat up straight, her eyes wide. “You’re going to school on Monday, and that’s that. Now you are going to eat some dinner, and after that I expect you to march your butt to the bathroom and take a shower. Do I make myself clear?”

Lacey nodded mutely, picking up her spoon, and Belle concealed a satisfied smile. She could never replace Mum, but maybe in an indirect way, Mum was still keeping them together.

******

_ April, 2005 _

With a weary sigh, Belle finished bagging up Dad’s empty beer cans, leaving them by the door so she could walk them to the deposit center this weekend. The center would give her ten cents for every recyclable container she brought in. Since Dad drank over a hundred beers a week, she could easily bring in ten to fifteen dollars every week. The five mile trip would be time consuming, but at least the April weather would make it a pleasant one. In the summer heat, the walk was nearly unbearable, but ten bucks was ten bucks. Anything to keep the family limping on just a little while longer.

That task done, she took mental stock. Dinner was simmering on the stove, and would be ready in another hour or so. The mail was sorted, the dishes soaking in the sink, the house reasonably clean. She had some time to tackle a bit of her homework before dinner was ready. The rest could be done after everyone was fed and the kitchen cleaned. Hopefully Dad would keep his drinking under control; Moe French was not a small man, and lugging him to his bedroom was a dreaded task that fell on Belle’s shoulders far more often than she’d like.

She entered her shared room with Lacey and stopped dead. The setting sun shone through the room’s one window, casting long shadows over Belle’s mostly-empty bookshelves and Lacey’s barren walls. Half of the light was obscured by Lacey, who had a piece of paper pressed to the window and was tracing something. At Belle’s entrance, she looked over her shoulder guiltily.

“What’s that?” Belle asked suspiciously.

“Nothing.” Lacey tried to hide the paper away, but Belle was faster, snapping it up from her sister’s fingers. “Give that back!” she snarled.

Belle’s eyes scanned the page. It was a progress report from school, reporting an issue with Lacey’s grades. A rough forgery of their father’s signature was scrawled across the space where a parent was supposed to sign. “You’re failing maths?” she demanded. “How the hell are you failing maths? You’ve been staying late at school for extra help for weeks!” Her sister’s sullen silence said more than any admission could. “Lacey Rose French, where have you been going after school?”

“None of your business,  _ Mum _ !” she snapped. 

Belle’s voice went dangerously quiet, the way Mum’s used to when she was running out of patience. “Tell me.  _ Now. _ ”

“Ugh. Fine! I haven’t been staying at school,” she confessed. “I was babysitting Mrs. Johnson’s kids down the street.”

That wasn’t what she’d been expecting. “Why?” she asked numbly.

Lacey gave her a sidelong glare. “For money,  _ obviously _ ,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “You sold all of Mum’s jewelry last month, so I assume we’re hard up for cash. This way maybe you won’t do something  _ really _ stupid, like sell a kidney.”

Shame curdled in Belle’s stomach. Lacey was sacrificing her time to help support their family. Not just her time, but her future. Ever since the school had let her advance a grade after their mother’s death, despite her lack of attendance, she’d been struggling to keep up with the rest of the students in their grade. Belle had tried to tutor her on the things she’d missed, but Lacey would hear none of it. And now she was throwing everything away to feed the family - something that should fall solely on Belle’s shoulders.

“Well, you’re going to call Mrs. Johnson tonight and tell her you won’t be babysitting anymore,” she snapped. “And you’re going to start staying after school for extra help until you get those grades up.”

Lacey rolled her eyes. “Or what, you’ll ground me? Just ‘cause you act like Mum all the time doesn’t mean I have to listen to you.”

Belle’s eyes fixed on the form in Lacey’s hand. “You’ll do it, or I’ll call the school and tell them you’ve been forging Dad’s signature. I bet they’ll be very interested to know why you haven’t shown your grades to dad.”

Lacey narrowed her eyes, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” Belle retorted through gritted teeth.

The two sisters stared at each other, each waiting for the other to break. Lacey relented first. “Oh, come on, Belle. Who gives a rat’s arse if I show Dad my shitty grades? What, you think he’s gonna see a couple failing grades and become Father of the Year? Show up for parent-teacher conferences? Maybe bake cupcakes for us to share with our classes on our birthday?”

No, she thought sadly. She didn’t. But this wasn’t about Dad. This was about Lacey throwing her future away. If anybody in this house should be doing that, it wasn’t Lacey.

“I don’t care,” she said, crossing her arms stubbornly over her chest. “You’re going to quit babysitting and focus on your studies, or I’ll go to the principal first thing in the morning.”

“God, you can be such a bitch!” Lacey stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

And with that, Belle knew she’d won. Lacey wasn’t the type to leave an argument if she thought she had any chance of winning. She would call Mrs. Johnston and quit her job, and she’d pull her grades up. Maybe once she was doing better in school, Belle would reconsider letting her get a part-time job. Maybe.

But she  _ had _ had the right idea, Belle admitted to herself. They needed money, and at fifteen years old they were too young to work anything more than the occasional odd job around the neighborhood. Lacey had been smart to pick up babysitting.

Maybe she’d call Mrs. Johnson tomorrow, she thought as she collected Lacey’s dirty clothes to throw them in the washer. The added income would keep them fed and clothed until Dad sobered up. She’d left some pamphlets for a rehab program on his nightstand, with a heartfelt note begging him to consider it. Surely he’d want to quit drinking once he saw how much his daughters missed and needed him. Until then, she’d pick up babysitting shifts, and just stay awake a bit later on weeknights to get her homework done.

Lacey would be furious with her for taking the job from her, but she’d get over it eventually.

******

_ May, 2005 _

“What do you mean, you’re breaking up with me?” Belle demanded.

Will, her boyfriend of six months, squirmed uncomfortably where he leaned against her locker. “Look, it’s no big deal, alright? It’s just… one of those things.”

No big deal? No big deal. The nerve of him. Belle scowled at her - apparently - ex boyfriend. “One of  _ what _ things?”

He shrugged, his eyes darting around the school corridor as though desperately looking for an escape. “I dunno. I guess… I guess I just wanna date someone more  _ fun _ .”

“Fun,” she repeated flatly.

“Yeah. I mean, your idea of a fun date night is getting a burger and watching movies on my couch. That was cool at first, but… Jesus, aren’t you  _ bored?  _ Even my parents have better dates!”

Belle recoiled, stung. Hanging out with Will on Saturday nights was honestly the highlight of her week. Her homework and housework were done. The Johnsons didn’t usually need a sitter. Dad would be out at the bar until the wee hours of the morning, and Lacey usually spent the night at a friend’s house, leaving Belle free to do what she wanted. Going out for a hamburger with her boyfriend before spending the evening watching movies and snogging on the couch seemed like the height of luxury to her. It was the only time she got to feel like a normal teen. She hadn’t realized that she was  _ boring. _

Looking back, she should’ve seen this coming. Will had canceled their past three Saturday nights together, begging off with excuses about “a family thing.” When pressed for details, all he’d tell her was that it was “no big deal.” The writing had been on the wall, and she’d utterly missed it.

Tears stung her eyes, and she swallowed them back viciously. She’d held her grief back when Mum died, determined to be the glue that held her family together. She didn’t cry when she was exhausted, waking up at two in the morning to drag Dad’s drunken, staggering form to bed. When she opened the trash one morning and saw the loving note and rehab pamphlets she’d left him crumpled on top, it had been a near thing, but she hadn’t wept a single tear. So she sure as hell wasn’t going to waste her tears on a boyfriend who dumped her because she wasn’t  _ fun enough. _

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding some airheaded party girl to date you,” she bit out. Will jammed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, shuffling his feet guiltily and avoiding her eyes. “Oh my god, you already have,” she realized.

“Listen, Belle, it’s no—“

“If you say ‘it’s no big deal,’ I will slug you,” she snapped. “You don’t get to cheat on me and tell me whether I have the right to be mad at you!”

He rolled his eyes. “Y’know, Lacey said you’d react like this.”

Her own eyes narrowed. “Like. What?” she asked, her voice dangerously low.

He gestured at her vaguely. “Like this! Irrational and emotional.”

“There’s nothing  _ irrational _ about being upset when my boyfriend dumps me for another girl!” Belatedly, Will’s words registered. “Wait. What does Lacey have to do with this?”

If he looked uncomfortable before, it was nothing compared to how he looked now. His shoulders hunched like he was hoping to sink in on himself. “Uh, nothing.”

“Will…”

Before she could demand the answers that she deserved, she was interrupted as her sister appeared seemingly out of nowhere, insinuating herself between Belle and her ex boyfriend. She slung her arms around Will’s neck and tugged him down for a long, lingering kiss.

The bottom dropped out of Belle’s stomach. Will was dumping her… for Lacey? It didn’t make sense. Her mind, desperately trying to make sense of the image her eyes presented to it, tried to flip the thought. Lacey was dating Will. Of all the boys in school, she had to go for the one her sister was dating?

It was no use; her mind simply wouldn’t wrap around the concept. As her sister and her ex boyfriend finally came up for air, she could only force a single word past her lips. “Why?”

With a mischievous smirk, Lacey whispers something in Will’s ear. Sighing in relief, he straightened his jacket and hurried off, leaving the two sisters alone. Lacey studiously examined her nails, picking at an imaginary bit of chipped polish.

Belle just stood there, staring at her sister while Lacey feigned complete unconcern at her act of betrayal. Conflicting desires warred within her. She wanted to slap the smug grin off of Lacey’s face. She wanted to beg and plead for her sister back, instead of this manipulative jerk wearing her face. She wanted to win Will back, and she never wanted to see him again.

Most of all, she just wanted to understand.

“Why?” she repeated, her voice cracking.

Lacey scoffed. “You’re the smart twin, aren’t you?” she said. “Figure it out.” The shrill school bell rang out, signalling the two minute warning to class starting. “Well, that’s class,” she announced airily. “By the way, I won’t be home for dinner. I’ve got a date with my boyfriend.” And with that final twist of the knife, she breezed off down the hallway.

Belle spent the rest of the day half-numb, her mind grappling with Lacey’s words. She’d made it sound like her reasons for stealing Belle’s boyfriend were obvious, but Belle was drawing a blank. Why would Lacey want to hurt her like that? She was doing everything she could to provide for the family, working tirelessly to keep everyone fed, clothed, and as close to happy as they could get. At this point a quick jaunt to the moon would probably be easier than making Dad and Lacey happy.

It wasn’t until she was walking to her babysitting job after school that the penny dropped. Lacey took Will from her in order to get payback for something. Belle had taken something from Lacey, who was repaying the favor in kind. And there was only one thing that Belle had stolen from her sister.

Mum.

It made sense, she thought with a dry sob. By selfishly going on a date two years ago, instead of doing what she was supposed to and minding the shop, she’d deprived them both of their mother. By extension, losing Mum had also cost them Dad. Of course Lacey resented her for that. 

It didn’t make what Lacey had done okay, she knew. Nothing about any of this was okay. It wasn’t right that Mum was dead and Dad was a drunk, that two formerly inseparable sisters were at each other’s throats. It wasn’t okay that Dad drove away customers with his drinking and his shoddy floral arrangements, and drank away every bit of profit he managed to scrape together. It wasn’t fair that Belle’s first boyfriend would leave her for her own sister.  _ Nothing _ was okay. And it was all her fault.

******

_ February, 2008 _

It was the anniversary. Five years ago today, the French family had fallen apart. Five years of working herself to exhaustion, scraping and scrounging to get by. Five years of juggling her studies with working part time jobs to keep food on the table, keeping the house clean and in good repair, and caring for a father too drunk and broken to care for himself.

She was tired. She was so tired. But it would all be over soon. She was eighteen now, due to graduate high school in a few short months. She’d managed to earn herself a full scholarship to her first choice of college. Before she knew it, she’d be out of this house. Dad and Lacey could learn to fend for themselves. She’d done her part. Hadn’t she?

She pulled up to her apartment building in her beaten up old car, shutting off the ignition and leaning her head wearily against the steering wheel. Today was the anniversary of Mum’s death, which meant things were going to be worse than they usually were. Lacey would be pricklier than usual, sullen and quiet where normally she was loud and outgoing. Belle would need to walk on eggshells all night to avoid a screaming row.

And Dad… Dad had taken the day off, same as he did every year. It was easier to wallow in grief and drink that way. Once Belle finished gathering herself and entered the apartment, she’d no doubt find him sprawled across the couch in boxers and an undershirt, too drunk to get himself to bed unaided.

“Please, please just tell me he didn’t puke on himself this time,” she whispered, blinking back frustrated tears.

As for Belle herself, she coped with today in the only way she knew how: by keeping herself too busy to think or feel anything. She’d been working nonstop since she woke up: school was immediately followed by babysitting, and from there she’d picked up an extra shift at the restaurant. Now that she was finally, reluctantly coming home, she had enough time to get Dad to bed, wash the dishes she hadn’t been able to get to last night, do her homework, and collapse into bed.

She took a deep, fortifying breath. The sooner she pulled herself together and did what she had to do, the sooner she could go to sleep, and the sooner this day would end.

The sight that greeted her as she entered her family’s flat was exactly what she expected. Dad was sprawled out on the couch, drunk as a skunk. The floor was strewn with empty beer cans, an empty pizza box lying open on the coffee table. At least he’d eaten.

Dad stirred at her entrance, his blue eyes blinking at her blearily. “Col? Izzat you?” he mumbled.

Belle winced. No matter how many years passed, Dad never stopped mistaking her for Mum, and it never failed to send a lance of pain through her heart. “Just me, Dad.”

“Oh.” The first few times he’d mixed Belle or Lacey up for his wife, he’d burst into tears. It was a testament to just how much the past five years had worn him down that he didn’t even sound disappointed anymore. Just resigned.

“Come on, Dad. Time to go to bed.” Somehow, she managed to get a shoulder under his arm and haul him to his feet with practiced movements. The going wasn’t easy; Moe French was a large man, and Belle was petite. But she’d done this dozens of times. 

Muscles straining under her father’s bulk, Belle made her stumbling way down the hallway toward her parents’ bedroom, leaning as heavily on the wall as Dad leaned on her. Thank god for the wall; without its support, she would have toppled right over. 

Suddenly, Dad took a bad step, his foot hooking around Belle’s left ankle. Overcompensating for the stumble, she put her right foot down wrong. Pain shot up from her ankle. Gritting her teeth through it, she managed to get her father into his bedroom, dropping him heavily onto his bed. Favoring her smarting ankle, she wrestled him under the blanket. A few limping steps brought her to the bathroom, where she filled a glass of water and poured a few pain pills into her palm. They would be waiting for him on his nightstand when he woke.

By the time she returned to the bedside, the air was already filled with the sound of snoring. Perching on the edge of the bed, Belle permitted herself a single, voiceless sob. “I can’t keep doing this,” she whispered, careful not to wake him or let Lacey hear. “Please, Dad,  _ please. _ We need you. I need you. Please snap out of it.”

It was no use. Even if he wasn’t passed out and snoring, he wouldn’t listen. She’d tried dozens of times to get him to quit, to no avail. If she talked to him when he was drunk, he wouldn’t remember her words the next day - or so he claimed. If she talked to him when he was hungover, he’d snap and snarl until she eventually gave up. And there was no time he wasn’t either drunk or hungover.

Feeling raw and vulnerable, she hurried out of the room. She needed to get out. There was no escaping the panicky, hopeless anger that constricted her chest, but she could at least distract herself with the dirty dishes that waited for her in the kitchen.

Stepping into the kitchen, she stopped short. Where she expected to find a pile of dishes from last night’s dinner, she instead found a clear counter, pots and pans piled high in the dishrack, and the little light on the dishwasher blinking to let her know that a load of freshly cleaned plates were within waiting to be put away.

She blinked in confusion. She hadn’t done the dishes this morning. It couldn’t have been Dad; he’d already been cracking his first beer when she was getting ready for school in the morning, and she certainly couldn’t see him rising from the couch to do housework once he started a binge.

Had… had Lacey done the dishes? If so, it’d be the first halfway decent thing she’d done in… Belle wasn’t sure how long. Some days it felt like they’d been at each other’s throats forever.

She didn’t understand why Lacey would suddenly decide to be helpful today of all days. And honestly, right now she lacked the patience, energy, and emotional fortitude to look into it. Tonight she’d simply be grateful that most of the work was done. All she had to do was empty the dishwasher and do her homework, and then she could go to bed early enough to get six hours of sleep. Luxury.

Belle opened the dishwasher, and froze. There, on the bottom rack, was her cast iron skillet. The skillet that she’d scored for five dollars at a yard sale. The one she’d spent hours scrubbing free of grime and rust, before restoring the seasoning that gave it its nonstick surface. 

With a muffled curse, she grabbed the pan, fingers searching the surface for any damage. It seemed okay. But the hot water and harsh detergent had stripped it of its protective outer layer. She needed to act quickly before it started to rust.

“Hey,” Lacey called dully from over Belle’s shoulder. “How was your day?”

“Oh, fine, fine,” Belle said airily. “You know, ‘til I got home and found out that you  _ ruined _ my favorite pan.”

Lacey snorted. “You have a favorite pan?” She must have picked up on Belle’s mood, because she quickly sobered. “Look, I was just trying to help.”

“Yeah, well your  _ help _ just added a three-hour job to my night,” Belle snarled as she rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, searching for the oil she needed to restore the pan. “You don’t put cast iron in the dishwasher! Even a complete idiot would know that.”

Lacey reeled back as though she’d been struck. “Well, I didn’t know that,” she mumbled, cheeks reddening. She regained her composure quickly, her jaw jutting out stubbornly. “I guess we can’t all be boring weirdo shut-ins with no social life.”

“No,” Belle agreed, “some people have to content themselves with being an uneducated bimbo who can’t even get a boyfriend without stealing him from her sister.”

“You know what? Fuck you!” Lacey yelled as she stormed out of the kitchen. “That’s the last time I help you with anything!”

“Don’t do me any favors!”

The only answer she received was the slamming of their shared bedroom door.

With a petulant huff, Belle set to work restoring her cast iron pan, stewing on her emotions. All she wanted was to get her family back. She wanted a sister who didn’t resent her for every date she dared to go on. She wanted a dad who could go a day without getting drunk, could actually look at his daughters without shutting down. She wanted a mum who… She wanted a mum.

She was starting to think that she was asking for too much. Dad didn’t care about his daughters anymore, and Lacey didn’t give a damn about anything but herself. Belle couldn’t wait until she could move out in a few months’ time.

Unbidden, an image played in her head of what life would be like in this flat without her here to keep things running smoothly. Dad and Lacey would be living in filth. No laundry would be done, no meals cooked or groceries purchased. Dad would either drink himself to death, or hurt himself staggering to bed without help. And Lacey… who knew what Lacey would get up to without Belle to keep her on the straight and narrow?

Maybe… maybe she should stay for one more year. She could still go to school, and just live at home. Dad and Lacey still needed her. Between the two of them, they either couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of themselves; tonight had made that abundantly clear. If she went off to live in the dorms, she’d worry about them so much that she’d never be able to concentrate on her studies.

Just one year, she reasoned. One year to make sure that Dad and Lacey would be okay without her. Then she could leave without looking back.

******

_ September 2010 _

Belle’s phone buzzed, and she growled in frustration, running her fingers agitatedly through her hair and yanking them roughly free when they inevitably snagged in her curls. She’d had a long day of attending college courses and waiting tables, and now she was plugging away at the essay she really should’ve started writing a week ago. For the past two hours, every last word had been wrenched unwillingly from her brain and transferred to the computer screen. She’d finally hit something of a stride ten minutes ago, the words flowing easily from her head to her fingers as she typed. So of course that was exactly when Dad decided to text her.

Pushing her chair back from her desk, she glanced at her phone. Sure enough, there was a barely intelligible text from Dad asking for a ride home from the bar. Not for the first time, she considered telling him to get his own ride. Ever since the day she’d gotten her driver’s license, Dad had started going out to the bar to drink. Or as he put it, to “get a few minutes of peace from the non stop fucking nagging.” 

Belle refused to let him see how much that hurt. If she were less stubborn, she’d have given up on her attempts to get Dad to cut down on his drinking years ago. Obviously it never worked. But she still held onto the hope that she could save him from the grief she’d caused. For now, she had to be satisfied with doing what she could: keeping him as healthy as she could, and driving him home from the bar so he didn’t risk his life and those around him by getting behind the wheel drunk.

Scrubbing tiredly at her face, Belle stood up and fetched her shoes and jacket. It was half past one now. If she hurried, she could get Dad home before two o’clock. That gave her six hours to wrap up her essay and get a few hours of sleep before her first class tomorrow. 

Just as she was grabbing her keys and stepping out the door, her phone went off again - a call, this time. Rolling her eyes at her father’s impatience, Belle pulled the phone out of her pocket and hesitated. The call came not from her father, but from Lacey.

“Hello?”

_ “Heeeeey, Sissy!” _ Belle frowned at the sound of her sister’s voice over the phone’s speaker. She couldn’t remember the last time Lacey had sounded happy to hear from her.  _ “Need you t’ come pick me up.” _

“From where? Where’s your car?” she demanded.

Lacey giggled.  _ “Car’s right here, but I can’t drive,” _ she singsonged, her words slurring and blending into each other.

Belle’s stomach felt heavy and sick with dread. “Why not?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

_ “Cuz it’s Ladies’ Night at th’ club an’ shots were only a dollar.” _

How quickly that dread could turn to despair. “No, Lacey,” Belle moaned, “please, not you too.”

_ “Spare me th’ lecture, Mum,” _ Lacey snapped.  _ “You gonna pick me up or what?” _

She glanced at the clock. If she was quick, she could get home with five hours to spare for homework and sleep. It should be enough time.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I’ll be there soon. I just need to pick Dad up first.”

******

_ July, 2014 _

It was over. It was finally over.

Belle tucked her carryon bag into the airplane’s overhead storage and settled herself into the stained, uncomfortable middle seat. On either side of her, her row mates selfishly hogged the armrests, leaving her to sit with her hands tucked primly in her lap. For the first time in her life, she was grateful for her short legs; if they were any longer, her knees would be cramped uncomfortably against the seat in front of her.

The moment she’d gotten her Master’s degree, she started frantically searching for librarian job postings in any English-speaking country she could think of. Any except for Australia. In the end, she’d gotten two job offers: one in Glasgow, Scotland; and another in Los Angeles, California. She’d debated for a full week on which position to accept. In the end, the potential to see the castles and lochs of Scotland had won out over the sunshine and beaches of California. 

She wondered how long it would take for Lacey to figure out that she was gone. She wondered if Dad would even care. For the past two weeks, ever since she bought her plane ticket, she’d agonized over whether to tell her family about her plans to leave. In the end, she’d kept quiet about everything: the job search, the offers, the one-way ticket, the money she’d been quietly saving over the past few years. She’d stayed up late last night writing a letter letting them know where she’d gone, and left it on her bed just as she left without looking back. Maybe it was selfish of her, but fear had caused her to hold her tongue. She was afraid that if Dad and Lacey found out, they’d beg her to stay, plead with her to put her life on hold indefinitely to keep them safe and provided for.

Worse than that, though, was the terror that they wouldn’t actually care enough to try to stop her. She didn’t think her heart could take that sort of knowledge. Better to be selfish and blindside them than to be forced to confront the truth of just how little they cared.

As the plane took off down the runway, she allowed herself the luxury of a few tears - for her mother, for her family, for the childhood she lost and the home she was leaving behind. If she’d known just how much leaving the country of her birth would affect her, she would have sprung for a window seat so she could watch the land pass by underneath. But the man next to her had closed the window shade, so she had to content herself with her imagination.

The woman sitting in the aisle seat next to her glanced sidelong at her, squirming uncomfortably at the sight of her tears. Belle composed herself quickly, wiping her face with the edge of her sleeve. Now wasn’t the time for tears. She’d spent the past eleven years trapped in the past, unable to move on from the family she’d destroyed. Now it was her turn to be self-centered. Time to stop looking back, and turn her gaze forward. For the first time in over a decade, she had a future to look forward to.

******

_ July, 2016 _

Belle’s heeled shoes clacked against the hospital’s tile floor with every hurried step. Realistically, she knew that hurrying was pointless; a few seconds one way or the other weren’t going to make any difference. Dad was dying, and there was nothing that could be done.

When her phone had lit up with a call from Lacey’s number a week ago, she hadn’t known what to expect. An apology for all the bad blood between them? Blame and recriminations for Mum’s death? News that she and Dad had gone sober, and wanted to come see her in her new home? The message she’d gotten was the last thing she’d expected.

_ “Dad’s dying. Liver failure. If you’ve got anything to say, you might wanna do it soon.” _

Those words, delivered in Lacey’s flat voice, had spurred her to action. She’d booked the first available flight out and taken a week off of work at the library - the first time she’d used her vacation time since she’d first started working there two years ago. Mrs. Campbell hadn’t been happy about having to scramble to find night coverage at the last minute, but when Belle had explained herself she grudgingly understood.

Pausing outside of the closed door of her father’s hospital room, she took a deep, shuddering breath. What waited for her beyond this door? Would Dad be happy to see her? Angry she’d left? Indifferent, as he’d been every day since Mum had died?

No use standing here wondering. All she had to do was open the door and find out.

Pushing the door in front of her, she paused. The nurse must have gotten the room number wrong. The yellow-skinned, withered old man in the hospital bed didn’t even stir at the interruption. The various tubes and machines hooked up to him dwarfed his sunken cheeks, graying hair, and rheumy blue eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I must have… the wrong…” She trailed off as she saw the woman seated in a chair at the far end of the room. Twin sets of blue eyes met, Belle’s widening as she took in the haggard features of her sister. “Lacey?” she asked weakly.

“Hey, Sissy,” Lacey said in a flat voice. 

“What…” Lost, she glanced back and forth between her sister and the stranger in the hospital bed. She looked closer. If the man’s cheeks weren’t so sunken, his skin a pinker hue instead of the yellow of jaundice… “Dad?”

He mumbled something unintelligible in reply.

“He’s on a lot of painkillers,” Lacey said dully. “Sometimes he’s lucid, but usually he’s kinda out of it. Right now he can’t even understand what we’re saying.”

“Oh.”

Lacey looked Belle up and down. “You look good,” she said. “All that fresh highland air must be good for you, huh?”

“Glasgow isn’t in the highlands,” Belle replied. She looked closer at her sister, taking in the sharpness of her cheekbones and chin, the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor in her cheeks. Worst of all was the dead, expressionless look in her eyes. It was the exact look she’d had after Mum died. “You look good, too,” she lied.

Lacey snorted. “Yeah, a dying parent must really agree with me.”

Belle flinched. Yes, she knew exactly how the loss of a parent affected Lacey. It had taken Belle six months to convince Lacey to get out of bed and live her life. She wondered: would Dad’s death affect Lacey the same way Mum’s had?

And would she blame Belle just as much for Dad’s death as she did for Mum’s?

Unable to stand Lacey’s eyes on her for one more minute, Belle asked, “Could I get a few minutes alone with him?”

Lacey rose from her chair with a careless shrug. “Fine by me. I was just thinking I could go for a coffee. Want anything?” When Belle shook her head, she shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She swept across the room in her casual shirt dress and left.

Crossing the room, Belle grabbed Lacey’s vacated seat and dragged it to her father’s bedside. She lowered herself into the chair and reached out to take his hand in hers. What once had been a broad, meaty paw of a hand was now shriveled, emaciated, and cold, with skin that felt paper-thin and fragile. She swallowed against the painful lump in her throat.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me. Belle,” she said. His head slowly turned toward her, his bleary eyes half-lidded and unfocused. “It’s been a while, huh? Two years. Time flies, I guess. Seems like just yesterday I was dragging you and Lacey… well. I guess you don’t want to hear that.”

Dad said nothing.

“I imagined having this talk with you a thousand times over the years,” she confessed. “Never thought I’d be having it in a hospital room, with you too out of it to understand a word I’m saying. But… here we are.” She waited for several long moments for any sign from her father - of alertness, of recognition, of… anything. As with many other things in life, she was disappointed. “I spent so many years just hoping for you to get better. I’ve reached out to you… god, it must be  _ hundreds _ of times by now. But you never listened. Not once.” A single tear escaped her iron grip, trickling slowly down her cheek. She scrubbed it away impatiently before she continued, her voice thick. “For a long time, I was angry with you. I just wanted to know why. Why couldn’t you stop drinking? Why did you ignore me every time I  _ begged _ you just to be there for us?  _ Why weren’t we enough for you?” _ Belatedly, she realized that she was yelling. She reigned her emotions in with some difficulty, lest a nurse come in to see why someone was screaming at a dying man. “I guess all that doesn’t matter. All that matters… is that none of this would have happened if it weren’t for me. It’s my fault Mum died. None of this would have happened if I’d just done what I was supposed to.”

Dad sat there without a word. Until that moment, Belle hadn’t realized just how much she needed to confide her guilt in someone. And until that moment, she’d had no idea how desperately she wanted someone to absolve her of that guilt. The silence in the face of her confession was both deafening and devastating.

“But there’s nothing I can do about that now,” she continued. “I can’t bring Mum back. I can’t undo the past eleven years. I can’t… make you healthy again.” Her eyes sharpened, blazing blue fire as she lifted her chin in obstinate pride. “I’ve failed our family for so long. But I’ll be damned if I fail Lacey for one more second. I’ll take care of her from now on, even if I have to drag her to Scotland by the hair in order to do it.”

******

_ Late July 2020 - Present Day _

Belle let herself into her flat with a tired sigh, dropping her keys on the small table by the door while she sorted through the mail. She opened her own first. Nothing interesting - just bills and junk mail. She kept the important bits, throwing the rest into the rubbish bin, and then started opening Lacey’s mail. Most of it was junk, with the exception of her credit card bill. 

Things with Lacey hadn’t improved at all since their screaming row a week and a half ago. They hadn’t spoken a word to each other since that incident, when Lachlan had felt the need to intervene. That had shamed her; after the way Lacey had taken advantage of him to spite her, he shouldn’t have to be in the same room as her ever again.

Belle had a hard time viewing their little stalemate as a bad thing. She hadn’t had to get up at an ungodly hour to pick Lacey up from some bar, drag her unconscious form into their flat, clean vomit off her dress, and put her to bed in weeks. Belle didn’t know how to handle the luxury of sleeping through the night; most nights, she still woke up automatically at two o’clock in anticipation of Lacey’s text. 

But she had to break the silence now, she reluctantly admitted. Lacey needed to know that her credit card bill was in, and Belle didn’t trust her to make the payment without a reminder or three. She brought the bill to Lacey’s room, knocking on the closed door.

“Lacey, you’ve got a bill in the mail.”

No response.

She knocked harder. “Come on, Lacey, I know you’re in there. Can I come in?” Still, nothing. “You know, you always complain about me coming into your room, but then you don’t check your mail or keep your space neat. What do you expect me to do?” She counted slowly to thirty, then nodded her head. Of course her sister was going to be petty. “Fine, I’m coming in,” she added as she opened the door, “so you’d better not… complain.”

Belle stared blankly into her sister’s room, her mind not accepting what she was seeing. She’d been in Lacey’s bedroom dozens of times since she’d convinced her sister to grudgingly accompany her to Scotland two years ago. As much as Lacey’s messy tendencies drove Belle mad, she’d come to expect them after a lifetime of sharing a bedroom. Cleaning up her sister’s messes was second nature to her by now.

This… wasn’t that.

Where she was usually greeted by an unmade bed, by a desk strewn with makeup products, by disorganized piles of mail, there was… nothing. The room had been emptied of everything: furniture, clothes, CDs, makeup… everything.

Lacey was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo yup. Flashback chapter. Hopefully this helps to clarify some of the issues between Belle and Lacey. I'm sure this won't come up in future chapters. >.>
> 
> This chapter opened me up to an AU of this story and that is the LAST thing I need right now.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Safe Place to Land](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169232) by [DeliriumsDelight7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliriumsDelight7/pseuds/DeliriumsDelight7)




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